


Amongst the Deathless Ones

by gleamingandwholeanddeadly (something_safe), printersdevils (tuesdaysgone)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Renaissance, Autopsies, Blow Jobs, Bottom Hannibal, Bottom Will, Cannibalism, Chases, Doctor Hannibal Lecter, Gruesome Imagery, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, Hannibal is a count and an artist, M/M, Medical Procedures, Murder, Nightmares, Penetrative Sex, Sex, Sex Dreams, TW: biting, Too many classical mythology references, Top Hannibal, Top Will, Venezia | Venice, Who wouldn't want Will Graham as an artist's model?, Will is a medical student, and it's sexy, autopsy flirting, but it's literally the Renaissance so why not?, chase scene, dark!Will, depictions of nasty cannibal nonsense, dismemberment mentions, gore - mild, hannibal's home abattoir open for business, manual sex, mentions of illness/family death, revenge kills, tw: dub-con if you squint?, tw: mauling, tw: monster fucking?, tw: nightmare sex, will's nightmare stagman makes another appearance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-02-09 12:00:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 58,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18637711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/something_safe/pseuds/gleamingandwholeanddeadly, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tuesdaysgone/pseuds/printersdevils
Summary: "Zeus carried off golden-haired Ganymedes because of his beauty, to be amongst the Deathless Ones and pour drink for the gods in the house of Zeus--a wonder to see--, honoured by all the immortals as he draws the red nectar from the golden bowl."-HomerWill Graham is an orphan, brought to Italy by a distant relative and studying medicine at the University of Padua. Hannibal Lecter is a wealthy foreign count, a former lecturer at the university who has retired to his country villa to paint. He takes an interest in the young man and offers his patronage.It could be as simple as that. But neither of them are simple men.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The working title for this was "Muse," and we've tried to be as vaguely historically accurate as possible. There is a University of Padua, it was definitely a center of Renaissance medical study, and it would have been common for researchers to have a relationship with a wealthy patron, though whether it would be via a quid pro quo arrangement as an artist's model is...well, it works for these two. 
> 
> Most artists weren't hunting their own cadavers. Probably. 
> 
> This is a completed work and will be edited and posted at regular, probably weekly intervals. Tags will be updated as necessary. As always, please send us a message with any questions or concerns. 
> 
> xo, Lars and Deadly

The lecture hall is silent except for the slight hissing of the torches, giving off a sickly yellow light but never enough warmth. It has to stay cold, Will tells himself, tucking his fingers underneath the edge of his robes. To stave off the rot.

He's done his theoretical study and seen the occasional wounded thing in the woods, but Will has never seen a human cadaver until this point. He feels a powerful humbleness in its presence, and the silence from his few fellow students suggests they too are cowed by the gravity of its presence. The professore seems less so, but that is only to be expected, perhaps, after having seen so many. Seen inside them.

Will can't help but lean forward where he stands as Professore Claudius makes the first cut. There is no blood- too old for that- but the smell is still enough to knock him back a fraction. He gathers himself and guards his expression. One classmate is not so fortunate in his control, and staggers for the door. The professore does not appear surprised.

"Mortality is an undignified business," he says sagely, continuing his grisly ministrations. "We will first be removing the skin, better to study the underlying musculature. I trust that you have taken the time to study and memorize the illustrations in _De Humani Corporis_."

There is a general murmur of affirmation. Will has made his own copies by hand, and they grew soft-edged now from handling and editing.

"Professore -" Will tries to control his blush as he asks a question about a section of the reading. The other students always stare at him when he speaks, hearing his English parents or perhaps merely his attempt at the unfamiliar Venetian dialect. He is accustomed to staring when his mouth is firmly shut, too, and won't let it deter him. He takes notes as the professore answers him, and continues his interrogation as the lecture continues, until the dissection becomes engrossing enough that he is lost in it.

They lose another student when the skin starts to peel back. Will can understand it - he can understand most things - but like staring, he isn't going to let squeamishness get in his way.

He closes his eyes and pictures the diagrams, identifying muscle groups even as the professore points them out, the tip of his knife pricking gently. He is compelled to look down at his own thighs, fingers following the lines the scalpel made, imagining his own flayed meat. With his memory, Will has only to be told anything once. Now, he can see it too.

The lecture winds down as the light dwindles. Will cranes his neck even as the professore draws the sheets back up.

 

He trails the other students out of the dissection chamber, listening as they prattle about dinner. At least these seem to possess strong stomachs. He diverts from the group and heads toward the library, gloomily candlelit and smelling softly of dust. Unsurprisingly, the library is his favorite place at the University of Padua. He has never seen such a collection. Will often spends as many hours there as he can before the librarians eject him.

Tonight is no exception. He works until his hands are aching; until the shadow that falls across his page tells him it is time to go. He gathers up his manuscripts and reams of notes and winds back through the dimly lit corridors until he is on the street, the cool night air rousing his mind away from the cadaver on the table. It will still be there to visit later in the vault of his memory.

His small rented room is only a few short minutes away, dreary and scantly furnished but with a cheerful fire in the hearth courtesy of the proprietress. He is fortunate enough to be here at all, he knows that. When his father and mother had passed away, it had only been kindness that had saved him from obscurity. He'd been taken in as a ward by his late aunt's husband and has since been given every opportunity he could ask for. Maximo tells him he deserves every one, that he is brilliant, and Will appreciates it, but wonders about his motives nonetheless. A suspicious mind has always been one of his innumerable foibles.

Sighing, he shrugs out of his student robes and sits by the fire in his tunic and breeches, wondering if he should ring for a dinner tray. After doing so, he reads more of his notes while he eats, missing his mouth a couple of times where he's engrossed. As often happens, he falls asleep in his chair.

He dreams of lying on a table, holding his organs up for inspection to inquisitive eyes.

 

When he wakes, he is both confused and sore, and the fire has long guttered out into coals. In its place, the sun heats the bare skin of his feet, a bright block of it spilling across the terracotta floor tiles, making the whitewashed walls glow. He's overslept, then, and impossible to tell how much until he manages to blink the sleep from his eyes.

It is not the first time; Will's sleep is rarely restful.

He gets up and washes, still half-stranded in his dreams of vivisection. A quick, cold breakfast of fruit and bread is eaten easily enough on his way to the university, as usual. He cringes away from a large group of law students arguing in a courtyard as he makes his way to the dissection theatre again.

He shouldn't be too late, just on the cusp.

He walks in the doors just as the professore wraps a noose around the cadaver's neck and pulls. Will freezes, making a small noise. He runs a hand over his face; when he looks again the scene is the same, and the professore is busy adjusting lamps and reaching for his pointer.

Sliding into a seat, Will takes out his supplies, fumbling between what he's doing and what he's watching. The cadaver is fully flayed now, musculature on display as it hangs for their inspection. Fascinated, Will makes a number of sketches, though it is more an exercise of familiarity than necessity. His memory is always faultless. It irritates his classmates.

That isn't the only thing that annoys people. He is often abrupt and absent-minded, with a not misplaced arrogance. Most of the professori seem to like it. They are not so different themselves. The leader of this seminar, Marcus Claudius, is particularly prone to Will; he often gives him extra texts to work from out of his personal selection. Will's fingers still itch to pick up a knife himself. He's hopeful that tonight he'll be able to make some inroads to a more hands on approach. Claudius has suggested he come to a gathering at the university for past alumni and benefactors.

He'd had to spend far too much of his pocket money on appropriate clothing, but he is grateful for the invitation. Maximo is very far away, and Will has been in Padua long enough to understand the necessity of a Venetian patron. As ever, he is reluctant to accept kindness or help, but his desire to further himself has won out squarely. The other students from his class would be there too, if he's understood correctly. He needs to perform to his best advantage. Grimly, he considers how many more enemies he'll make by doing so. It hardly matters, he supposes.

 

He spends his next few classes absorbed in his work, and the afternoon in the library once more. He makes sure to leave before the sun set this time, trudging back to his rooms and setting his papers aside regretfully. He has to wash and get dressed.

The breeches are a good fit, but the jacket feels too tight after so many months of student robes. He peers at himself in the dingy mirror of his armoire, flicking his hair out of his eyes repeatedly. It will have to do. It would all have to do.

With trepidation rising in his stomach, he leaves for the gathering. It is strange to see the University so alight so late in the evening. And so full of people in conversation. Will takes a deep breath. Conversation is not his strength. With a glance at the sky, he goes into the university, shouldering amongst the crowds.

He can feel sweat beading on his brow almost immediately from the heat of so many bodies and so many candelabra. He skulks for a while, taking in the general splendor. Noble gentlemen and their wives mingle among the professori in their silken black; the cream of Padua and Venice, he imagines.

He notices a select handful of his fellow students - a prize few - among the many finely clothed scholars, many of whom Will recognize purely from his books. Padua and Bologna are in constant competition to lure each others' professori. It is interesting to wander and listen to the conversations with the nobles, but soon the noise and the heat become overwhelming and he seeks out a small chamber.

There, he finds Claudius, nursing a drink and deep in conversation. Will waits to be noticed, then greets him respectfully.

"Will," Claudius makes a motion to clap a hand on his shoulder before visibly restraining himself, "so good to see you. Please, let me introduce you to some of my esteemed peers."

"Of course, Professore," Will bows his head.

Claudius points him out to several bearded men with matching serious expressions, before gesturing to the final stranger. "... and this is Conte Hannibal Lecter, a pioneer of modern surgery."

Will makes the mistake of meeting the Conte's eyes and immediately finds himself pinned by them.

"Good evening," he greets, politely for how his eyes sweep rather impolitely over Will.

"Good evening, Conte," Will stammers. "I've - read your work. All of your work," he amends, glancing at the others. He's not lying, but Lecter has been one of the prevailing influences for the study of anatomy for some time now, his methods controversial and often groundbreaking, his reputation flawless, both professionally and socially. He used to teach at the university himself, but he resigned. Will hadn't known he still lived nearby. Stumbling for a way to grasp the thread of conversation, he gets out, "I found your research on organ removal to be fascinating."

"Yes?" Lecter turns to him more fully.

"Yes, especially the section on ligature versus cauterization."

He's fixed with an avian, tilted gaze. "Claudius has mentioned you before- he tells me you're interested in pursuing a career in medicine."

Why else would Will be here? he thinks, rather tartly. "That tends to be the case when studying it, doesn't it?" He tries to make it bantering, rather than simply rude. Even so, Lecter's eyes spark amusement.

"One hopes. How long have you been in Padua?"

"Almost a year now."

"Such a long time, Claudius," the Conte says to the professore, who is hovering, transparently curious. "And this is this first you invite him to a reception?"

"I've invited him, he seldom comes. He prefers the dead."

Will colors, unsettled. Lecter doesn't look away from him though, his eyes so brown they look black in the dim light, burgundy when the candlelight hits them. "He's not the only one."

"Now, Conte, we both know that's not true. You just prefer your painted gods," Claudius replies, somewhat reproachfully.

"Where do you think I found them? The work of the gods is no less apparent than in the human form."

It's borderline blasphemous, really; at least one of the other doctors, probably more devout, looks uncomfortable. "I've heard about your paintings," Will interjects, "I've never seen them though, unfortunately."

"My boy," the Conte says smoothly, "please do accept an invitation to visit me, in that case. I'd love to have you for a meal."

"I- I wouldn't want to intrude." He sees the way Professore Claudius' eyes are drilling into him and suddenly comprehends - Will is here for a reason, and a respected doctor who is also a foreign count is showing an interest in his studies, and he's being foolish, for no reason other than his own awkwardness.

"On the contrary," Conte Lecter says evenly, "it'd be a welcome distraction."

"Very well," Will says, cheeks flushing. "It's very kind of you." He's having trouble believing he can be the recipient of such good fortune: Lecter's reputation is infallible, his intellectual notoriety almost mythic.

One of the other doctors asks him a question next, almost as if he's envious of the attention Will and Claudius have given the Conte. Will obliges him with his insights and following questions, though he feels Lecter's gaze climbing up his neck and face the entire time. It pushes him to perform to his best, in all honesty. He's not talking to the professore, he's performing in front of the Conte. Even Claudius is relatively forgotten.

"You're very astute, young Will," Lecter tells him, when the conversation naturally lulls, "but you sound like your observations study from a lack of practical knowledge. Have you had any experience with dissection?"

"I'm still in the lecture," Will says with a bashful glance at Professor Claudius.

Lecter looks at him too. "Well, we'll have to see what we can do about that, won't we, Professore?"

Claudius nods. Will blushes again. "That would be- I mean, I'd be grateful..."

"Of course," Conte Lecter murmurs. He favors Will with a smile that's entirely too intimate for a room full of people. Or indeed for two people who don't know one another. But it doesn't seem to matter.

Will wets his lips unconsciously, curious at what he's feeling. He feels the sudden clawing need to get away, and the opposing pull to stay, to monopolize even. "Excuse me, professori, Conte," he ducks his head in a polite bow, "I find myself in need of some air."

They all murmur the proper pleasantries and Will makes his escape, heading even farther away from the atrium where the main party still fills the space with heat and noise. He makes his way into a balcony, letting the warm night swathe him in darkness and quiet. It's an immediate relief, setting his head swimming with the slowing of his pulse. He leans back against the walls, looking out at the city. It's not as restful as he could hope.

He needs to go back inside, he knows. At the very least, he thinks he wants another glimpse of the Conte. With a few moments of silence inside him, he can buffer the noise as he shoulders back through the throngs. He keeps his eyes on the crowd; who's drunk, who's bored, who's having an affair. Will knows from long experience that these are things most people do not notice. But he always does.

He sees Hannibal Lecter in profile, thrown into shadow by torchlight, deep in conversation with a man who clearly isn't entertaining him. Will can see something in him, too, something he can't quite put a name to. It doesn't have a name, but it does have a symptom - an absolute stillness behind bottomless eyes. Will watches it until Lecter's eyes turn to him, like he sensed he's being watched.

Will smiles, but turns away almost immediately. He keeps walking, more or less invisible amongst the others. He feels the Conte's eyes following him for some time. He stops briefly to speak to a few other professors, but when a small group of fellow students takes out an assortment of instruments and begins to play, Will seeks out another hiding place.

It's a physical effort not to let his feet carry him toward the library. He really feels it would be ample reward for the evening's exertions. But it is doubtlessly closed and locked. Sighing, he sates himself with a quiet corner, where the noise doesn't quite touch the walls. The sudden appearance of another occupant practically makes him shout.

"I didn't mean to startle you, Will."

"Oh! Conte! You were so quiet, I beg your pardon for -"

"It's nothing, do not trouble yourself." He gives Will that smile again. The difference is that they are not in a room full of people, not now.

Will bites his lip. "Was- is there something I can help you with, Conte?"

"Conversation," Lecter says smoothly.

"A particular kind?"

"Yours. If that is acceptable."

"It is." Will shrugs. "You don't ask much."

"I was watching you skirt the edges of the crowd. You appeared bored."

"Most people," he shifts his shoulders uncomfortably, "are malleable. I'm generally not."

"How do they ask you to bend?" The Conte inquires.

"Around other people, mostly." He tries not to let it sound like an innuendo, and likely fails from Lecter's smile.

"You dislike those interactions?"

"I am not skilled at such things."

"You're a scientist," Lecter points out, "the problems you usually solve have controllable variables, and a predictable outcome. Social interactions can be unpredictable, influenced by any number of external factors."

It is true, but Will also knows he is one of those factors. "Unpredictable outcomes are not always adverse ones."

"I know," Lecter smiles. "Even so, I think you're doing an admirable job of fielding for every possibility."

"It's easy for me," Will murmurs.

"Why so?"

"I have a very good imagination," Will says after a moment.

"What does it show you?"

"Anything I want to see. Many things I do not."

"Is it a fiction, or an insight? Imagination is a tricky label to put on such a thing."

"Sometimes I do not know," Will admits.

The count tilts his head. "But you find such thoughts to be a burden."

"Yes." He watches Lecter come toward him, a hesitant step like he's advancing on a wounded animal. Then he stops.

"So you withdraw when you can," he muses.

"Cauterizing the wound," Will jokes, thinly.

"Hurts more that way," Lecter murmurs. "As you well know."

"Faster to heal, though."

"Leaves a scar. You are too -" Lecter stops himself.

"Too what?" He doesn't want him to.

"Much too young."

"I'm old enough for plenty."

The count's face is inscrutable in the dim hallway. "I know." Will shuffles a bit. He's not sure what the studying silence means now. It is very loud. Eventually the count seems to take up another course. "Claudius tells me your birth parents were not from here. I believe we have that in common."

"Yes," Will nods, trying not to focus too much on Lecter and Claudius discussing him, "Maximo was my aunt's husband; there was no English family left to take me after the influenza."

"Well. At least you ended up here. Worse fates and all that."

"I do prefer it to dying," Will says dryly. "You have settled here permanently, then, Conte? You do not wish to return to Poland?"

Lecter's hooded eyes go distant for a moment. "Not as such."

Will nods, eyes escaping the net of the Conte's for a moment. "You left when you were young?"

"Little more than a child. Similar to you, I came under the guardianship of my uncle, who lived in Florence."

"Then we're both in debt to consequence."

"For?" A smile touches Lecter's lips again, fleeting.

"Ending up here." Will smiles a little.

"What is your ambition, once you complete your studies?" Lecter asks.

"I'm not entirely sure. I just need to know everything I can."

Lecter hums thoughtfully. "I have always had a similar ambition myself."

Will bites his lip. "You're much further than I."

"I've had time, and opportunity. I can help you with one of those."

"I - that isn't usual for you, is it?"

"No, it is not." He smiles. He looks extremely pleased to be figured out in such a manner.

Will is pleased with himself, too. The Conte is both brilliant and more than a little enigmatic, a worthy subject of study, and he seems entirely comfortable with being the focus of Will's strange deductions.

"And as we've already established," he says, interrupting Will's musing, "this isn't usual for you, either. So we're on even ground."

Not entirely, but Will doesn't mention it. "We should get back to the party, I guess."

"Once we've decided when you'll dine with me," says the Conte.

Will laughs a bit, surprised. "It's- the choice is yours, Conte."

"The day after tomorrow," he says immediately.

Will nods, just as instant. "Well, that's settled then."

"All right." Lecter smiles. "I'll send a carriage for you."

Will nods, gives him the address of his boardinghouse. "I'll uh- I'll look forward to it," he adds, quietly.

"As will I." The Conte gives him a wry smile, and then gestures. "I'll leave you to your thoughts."

Don't, Will wants to say. But he has no right to ask it. Instead he bows his chin again, and watches him take his leave. The deep burgundy of his coat glows under the torches like the last fingers of a sunset. Will doesn't look away until he's gone. Then, and only then, does he allow himself to sigh.

He'll need to finish his work for the week early, and he hopes the Conte won't mind seeing him in the same clothing. He frets about the clothing, and the rest of it, for the rest of the evening, and long after he's returned home to his books. Even, he feels, in his dreams.

 

He's still fretting when the carriage shows as promised, two days later. He's bathed and shaven carefully, and dressed in fresh linen, though it must necessarily be the same deep green coat as before, as he owns little clothing fine enough for a conte's palazzo.

The ride out of the city is longer than he'd anticipated, and he's quite pleased he brought study materials. Will typically walks everywhere, and while he's been known to read, this is more efficient. He looks out the window every now and then, taking in the copper burn striping of the scenery in the sunset. This is beautiful country. He wonders how it compares to Lecter's homeland - he knows how it compares to his.

As far as he knows, Poland is generally colder. He wonders if the Conte prefers the thaw of this land. Lecter would look at home in the snow, though, shadows on the planes of his face, a thick fur collar ruffling over his shoulders. Will bites his lip at the thought, surprised at himself, a little unsettled by his own attentions. This is his self-avowed _imagination_ again. It feels almost with prying, even within the confines of his own mind. He can't help it, though. He almost never can.

He pushes it away as the carriage finally draws through a pair of great gates on a long dirt road. The road is lined on either side with trees; beyond them, grapevines. The vineyards give way to a towering villa, blazing gold in the sun, the windows glaring. It makes Will catch his breath.

There's a figure waiting at the steps of the house, dark haired and slender. The carriage pulls to a stop and Will gathers his things.

Will goes to the bottom of the steps and bows, only with a hint of his usual reluctance. A young woman in foreign-looking robes watches expressionlessly. She regards him with an easy silence, then gestures.

"Follow me."

Will follows, trying to place her features and accent and failing. She seems for her part entirely unconcerned with him. She's elegant and shrouded in the same effortless neatness as the Conte. Will finds himself somewhat hypnotized as he follows her through the great, art-filled foyer, into a finely decorated reception room, glass eyes glinting in taxidermied deer heads on the walls. This is where Lecter waits, rising from a dark carved chair to greet him.

"Will," he says, with his touch of warmth.

Will bows again, deeper this time. He's not quite as reluctant to show the Count the back of his neck. He does fidget uncomfortably with his stack of papers and books until the attendant comes and takes them out of his hands, setting them aside on a nearby table.

"I trust your journey was satisfactory? I can only apologize about the distance, you must have been bored."

Will glances at the books, then back. "It was fine. Quiet. Thank you."

"Are you hungry?" Will nods. He often forgets to eat. "Dinner, then. A glass of wine while it's being brought up?"

"Uh- yes, I'd like that. Thank you."

Lecter nods at the girl, who disappears down the hall while the Conte moves toward a sideboard holding bottles and glasses. "This vintage is particularly lovely," he tells Will, apparently assuming he knows anything about wine, "a summer harvest that was aged for only a short time, it's sweet but young." He pours Will a glass and offers it. His lips are curved in a very faint smile.

Will takes it. "Thank you." He sips, savoring a flavor that's simple but potent. He watches his host do the same, and then make a circle with his finger.

"Would you like a tour?"

"If you'd like." He is here to see artwork, ostensibly. Even so, Lecter looks amused.

"Not even a pretence of interest in anything extrinsic to your work. I expect over the duration of our friendship that you will keep me very much on my toes, Will."

"I'm interested in _your_ work, Conte."

"This whole house is arguably my work, but I concede your point."

"Well, I am interested in whatever you would like to show me," Will replies.

"Let's start with what you think will most benefit you. Interest in the rest will follow." He gestures him through to the foyer again.

Will bites his lip. "Conte..."

"Please, Will, call me Hannibal. There is no place for titles in the world of art and science. We are all students."

It sounds very flowery and plausible, the way he says it, but Will automatically shakes his head. "It seems disrespectful..."

"Trust me, I take disrespect quite seriously, but I know the difference. Call this intimacy, if you like."

"Unearned," Will mutters. He knows he's being borderline disrespectful even by pressing the matter.

"What else is friendship, really?" Lecter murmurs, looking as if he can read Will's every thought.

"Someone makes allowances for the other, until they arrive at equilibrium?"

The Conte smiles at that, faintly. "How delightfully manipulative. Are you sure you are not a law student?"

"It wasn't intentional," Will says, a touch more defensively than he means to.

"I am entirely sure it wasn't." He reaches out to take Will's elbow. Stunned, Will lets him, following him up the elaborate marble staircase, past a number of striking art pieces.

Will stops in front of one, eventually, entirely despite himself. He feels Hannibal stop too, fingertips resisting letting go. It's insidious, the way the first name has crept into his mind.

"Beautiful, no?" he hears him whisper.

"I've never seen anything like it."

"What do you like about it?"

"Her expression," Will says automatically. "She looks afraid."

"Yes, rather. Are you familiar with the myth?"

"No, tell me?"

"Her name is Leda. She was pursued by Zeus in the form of a swan. You can see the feathers around her feet, see?"

Will nods, already burdened with her sorrow. "Is this one yours?" he asks softly when he can finally find his voice.

"No, we'll get to those." He looks at the painting for a while. "Do you know much about the Greek gods?"

"I wouldn't like to test it, but some."

"I have many books in my library if you have any interest. In any of them."

Will smiles, a bit embarrassed. "You're very generous."

"Fortune has favored me with many things. Sharing them can be as much of a pleasure as ownership."

The way he says 'pleasure' seems unnecessarily tempting. Will wrings his hands a bit. He feels, suddenly, how very alone they are. It's not entirely a fear of Lecter he feels. More of his singular insight. He's magnitudes more brilliant than anyone else Will knows. Even more than expected. And he's more than happy to point it in Will's direction. He's not used to that.

They keep walking, up toward a huge, sprawling library with a cosmology map on the ceiling. This Will stares at for some minutes. "Impressive," he murmurs.

"Thank you, Will. I admit to some surprise that you didn't immediately gravitate elsewhere."

"I can appreciate aesthetics."

"I have no doubt on that score."

Will does go to the books then. It's enough to make him forget everything. "Is there anything you don't have a book on?" he asks, bemused.

Hannibal laughs. "Not much."

He trails Will around the library, occasionally asking soft-voiced questions about his classes. Will finds himself pulling books off shelves, adding to the growing pile in his arms. Hannibal laughs at his expression when he finally finds himself overloaded, lifting them away from him.

"Not quite time enough to read them all tonight. I shall have to send you home with some. Are you hungry?"

"Yes," Will says, coloring. Gentle hands steer him back toward the stairs. Hannibal smells of woodsmoke and herbs, and Will finds it somehow nostalgic.

The dining room he leads Will to is particularly grand. Paneling and gold leaf feature prominently. Will has never even beheld such a place. He tries hard to curb his staring. Two places are set close together at one end of the large table, and Hannibal watches him look around with amusement.

"All this and you have no wife or children?" he asks, without thinking.

"No," Hannibal replies, tone gently reproachful. "It's not a life meant for everyone."

"I - of course, I didn't mean to imply -"

"Imply what?" Hannibal waits. His expression is faintly teasing.

"That it is in any way, ah. Incomplete."

"More that it seems wasted on just me?"

Will frowns. That is definitely intentional teasing. "If anyone can appreciate it, I'm guessing it's you."

That earns him a smile. "Sit down. Dinner will be served shortly."

There's another pitcher of wine already waiting on the table. Hannibal serves it. "Thank you," Will murmurs. He's hardly drank before, and he's a little concerned about how warm his face feels after just one glass.

The dark-haired servant from before is the one to bring in their dinner on a tray. "Thank you, Chiyoh," Hannibal murmurs, giving her a small smile.

Will stares at the plates. He's never seen anything like it. Never seen anything like any of this. Hannibal, politely, describes the first course. Will gets about three words of it, but that's okay: it looks good.

It tastes better. It tastes like it belongs on the Doge's table. Or the Pope's. "This is incredible," he murmurs, before he can stop himself.

"Thank you," Hannibal replies.

"Isn't it me who should be grateful? All this- you must know it's wasted on me."

"On the contrary." He takes a sip of his wine, silvering hair falling across his forehead for a moment. "I have every faith in your capacity to learn and grow in your enjoyment, as well as every confidence in your worthiness."

Will feels himself flushing at the outright praise. "I only hope I can meet your expectations," he says, a touch dryly for his blushing.

"Will we continue to meet regularly?" Hannibal murmurs. "Your professor led me to believe you were desirous of a mentor of sorts."

"I am- he's right." Will nods quickly. He tries not to look too desperate.

"Well, that's good. Perhaps we can help each other. I have a suggestion."

Will sets his fork down. "Oh?"

"Somewhat unorthodox, I'm afraid," Hannibal admits. It's an out if ever Will has seen one.

"I'm listening."

He sees Hannibal consider his words. "I'd like to show you my work after dinner," he says, "and if you find it interesting, I'm going to ask you to assist in it, in exchange for my supervision of your practical advancements."

"Which work?" Will asks.

"My painting."

"I'm not in the least artistic, I'm afraid, Conte."

"Call me Hannibal. And you needn't be."

"What need I be then, Hannibal?" Will asks, looking over the rim of his goblet.

"Only yourself, nothing more, nothing less."

Will represses a snort. "That sounds ominous for one of us."

"So little faith," Hannibal murmurs. He looks up as the servant, Chiyoh, brings in the next course. Will curtails his rebuttal, sipping his wine instead and concentrating on his dinner. It's as decadent as the starter, some sort of meat delicately roasted with a tongue-tingling sauce. The plate is garnished with figs and matchsticked vegetables, and Will eats everything, though he tries to keep up conversation as he does so.

"What do you paint, then?"

"Scenes from literature and mythology, mostly."

"I'll have to brush up."

Hannibal's lips twitch. "My library is open."

"You'd better recommend me your favorites."

"Perhaps you'll make some requests."

"I'd like to read some more about Leda and the Swan, at least."

"Very well," Hannibal murmurs.

Will smiles a bit, indulgence buoyed by wine and food and, to a degree, Hannibal himself. "What myths would you like to show me?"

Hannibal's eyes flicker. "There are so many. I think you might find Ganymede particularly compelling."

"Tell me?"

"He was the son of a humble farmer, so beautiful that Zeus stole him away to Olympus in the form of a great eagle."

Will shivers automatically, feeling the stab of talons. "What happened next?"

 "As a beloved favorite of Zeus, he was granted immortality and a place among the gods."

"A farm boy at the god's table, hm?" Will smiles a bit.

"Cupbearer to the most high himself." His voice is soft. Will can't stop watching him as he raises his cup to his mouth and inhales, eyes fluttering closed. Unbidden, Will's face colors. "Of course," Hannibal adds casually, "Plato and Socrates disagree on the nature of the favoritism."

"On what basis?"

"None of Zeus's other lovers received the gift of immortality."

"So Ganymede was exceptional in some way?"

"In every way, so the myths claim."

"Zeus must have been shallow, if all that elevated Ganymede in his affections was his looks."

Hannibal's lips twitch faintly. "It has been said."

"The vanity of gods," Will murmurs, "the downfall of men."

"What's that, Will?"

"Hm?" He sips his drink. He watches Hannibal watch him. He's still smiling.

"Was Ganymede the wrong choice for you, then? There are so many other stories. I'm certain at least one will catch your interest..."

"I'm sure you'll find it, whichever it is."

"Permission to monopolize your attention for a while longer, then..."

"Granted," Will says, immediately. He's still feeling flushed.

They finish their dinner and take a break before dessert.

"I thought we could have it with a night cap, after I've showed you the studio."

"Yes, of course." He feels an urge that's nearly a need to see the Conte's paintings.

They rise from the table, taking their drinks with them. Hannibal leads Will upstairs again, this time away from the library. There are more torches lit than Will would have expected of a man living apparently alone, but Hannibal still carries a lamp with him.

The studio smells strongly of paint, but Will hardly notices, eyes drawn immediately to the staggering collection of canvases against the studio wall. It's the colors he sees first, vast, vibrant swaths of amber and cream and blue and red. Limbs next - bodies in motion, bodies at rest. Bodies in pieces. Will stops at an anatomical study of a severed arm and lingers on the lines. He's rendered it in oils so delicate and precise that it looks closer to living flesh than any cadaver.

There's no words for how captured he feels. His eyes rove up over the other canvases; reclining nudes, architecture. All of it is precise and beautiful. Much of it, he supposes, Biblical or mythological. It's not his area of study. Behind him, Hannibal seems to be awaiting his currently silent appraisal.

Will turns to him, wringing his hands a bit. "Conte, this is astounding. Truly."

He gives him a humble tilt of his chin, smile demure. "High praise indeed."

"From someone who can adequately copy an anatomical engraving and no more. But I mean every word."

"What you see here is merely the pursuit of the perfect copy. Replication is religion, in its way." Hannibal smiles. He lights another couple of torches along the wall, illuminating a cushioned bench and several potted plants; draped cloth. "Here is where I set up my models, when I use them." He looks at Will again. Will looks around once more, and something clicks.

"Is this anything to do with your proposition, Conte?"

"If you're amenable. I am hardly in the habit of carrying anyone off."

Will doesn't believe it, but he considers the question anyway. "It's- some of them are..." Hannibal waits for him to finish, head tipped at a polite angle. Damn it all. "Naked, Hannibal."

"Some are, yes, others are not."

Will almost daren't ask which he'd be. He's mortified enough as it is: Hannibal clearly has no objection to making studies of men. Physicians care nothing for such considerations, of course, nor do painters.

 Even so, this feels different. A good portion of Hannibal's models are dead, for one. Will doesn't bother asking where he acquires the cadavers. Doctors all have their sources. Instead, he asks, "Why me?"

Hannibal considers the answer for a long moment. "Would you believe me if I said it were a simple matter of aesthetics?"

"Vanity of the gods?" Will says it a bit more tartly this time.

"Arguably my downfall, yes."

Will pauses. It isn't as if he believes it is _more_ than that. "You just want me to sit for you." He's more justifying it to himself.

Hannibal inclines his head. "Yes. And in return, you'll have the library, and we can arrange you some practical experience." It seems so...simple. Weighted in his favor, even. "I will also benefit from your company," Hannibal adds, with a touch of teasing behind his eyes, "I daresay it might take me down a peg or two."

Will barely knows the man, and even he knows that is unlikely. "I'll have to be here a lot for that," he scoffs, before he can stop himself. Hannibal actually laughs.

"The pleasure will be all mine."

Biting his lip, Will eyes the staged area again, then Hannibal. He nods. "Very well, Conte. Thank you for your offer."

He knows that Hannibal is probably waiting for a clearly acceptance or refusal, and it would be rude not to provide one. But honestly, how could he even consider saying no?

"Shall we have dessert?" Hannibal interjects, easily.

Will nods. He can't say no to that, either. Not after the quality of the dinner they've had. He feels the Conte's warm hand at the small of his back as they cross the first floor to a set of balcony doors, open to let the scent of wisteria drift into the house.

The view from the balcony, when they step outside, is breathtaking. Will stares as Hannibal steers him into a seat. A small table waits for them, already laden. Without thinking too much on the implications- or maybe thinking on them just enough- Will picks up the decanter of wine and pours some for Hannibal, pushing it across to him.

"Thank you," Hannibal says delicately. He in turn gives Will a shallow dish in which rests a confection of fruit and cream.

Will pours his own drink, then sits down to eat. The stars are starting to rise above them, and he looks up, searching for Venus.

"Zeus set Ganymede into the stars as well, along with many others," Hannibal says casually, sipping his wine. "Today he's called Aquarius."

"Can you see it from here?"

"Yes, It is best viewed in the autumn months," Hannibal murmurs. He points.

Will cranes his neck until he sees the band Hannibal points to. He smiles a little. The Conte is persistent, it seems. Will sort of likes it. More than he should. But it's a familiar quality, even so.

"Thank you for inviting me," he murmurs, going back to his bowl.

Hannibal just smiles. "You're welcome."

They finish in quiet, Will distracted by everything, wary of his own inclination to look too long and too hard at things he finds interesting. The things he finds interesting often aren't good for him.

"So when do you want to start-?" he asks, despite himself.

"Is that agreement, then?"

"Is it a binding contract?" It feels it. Will isn't sure his soul isn't implicitly on offer in all this.

"Will," Hannibal reproaches gently.

Will drops his gaze immediately. "I'm sorry. Yes. It's agreement."

"It's not binding," Hannibal tells him, sounding sincere, "I will retract my offer if you are uncomfortable with the suggestion."

"It's the least I can do, really," Will insists.

"That doesn't mean you are required to do so. It's more an arrangement of mutual benefit, though I'm more than happy for the benefit to be solely yours if that's what you want."

"That seems unfair." He drinks more wine. "Besides, I'm not- I'm not backing out, I'm more feeling out the terms."

Hannibal makes a graceful gesture, as if saying, _By all means_. Will hates how unruffled he looks: he himself feels entirely too ruffled. He probably shouldn't be drinking so much, for one thing. He puts down the cup almost to spite himself. Even so, his face glows with heat.

"Will?" Hannibal's voice goes pointed with concern. "Are you well?"

"I'm fine," he says, standing up and walking to the balustrade. The fresh air doesn't seem to be helping much.

Hannibal stays at his post, clearly wary of pushing him.

Will's not sure what he'd do, with a push. "I don't usually drink," he confesses, with a little laugh.

"My darling boy, I do apologize, you should have said." He does stand then, coming to put a steadying hand on Will's shoulder. "Would you protest to staying in a guest room? It's a long ride home if you're feeling delicate."

"I couldn't impose."

"It's a very large palazzo, Will, and I have very many rooms. Don't concern yourself with impositions."

Will bites his lip. He thinks of the carriage bumping down the dirt track, and his stomach turns a little. "Thank you, Conte."

Hannibal stands gracefully and walks back to the balcony doors, presumably to talk to a servant. Is the girl Chiyoh his only attendant? Will wonders. That is the most eccentric thing he's seen yet in this palazzo, perhaps. He waits, resisting the urge to go back to Hannibal's studio and poke amongst the canvases. They're calling him. Even the ones that make him feel weak and hot and shaky with thoughts of what lies beneath the surface.

Maybe his inhibitions are lower. Maybe he's just feeling that way out. Either way, he goes, slipping into the dim studio, creeping amongst the paintings. They seem to loom all around him. Dropping down to examine a few smaller pieces, Will stills, caught by one in particular. He picks the canvas up, taking in the face of the child depicted there. Like most of Hannibal's paintings, she's clearly dead. He sighs. The canvas drips with grief. His fingers feel slippery with it. Even so, the study feels clinical. Will can't stop staring at it, not even when footsteps sound softly behind him.

They halt, and silence falls for a long time. "Are you well, Will?" Hannibal asks eventually, tone indecipherable.

He puts the canvas back, stands slowly. "I'm sorry," he murmurs.

"No apology necessary. What did you see?"

"Grief isn't rational," Will says, looking away.

He can almost feel Hannibal's coolness. It's like being cast starkly into shadow. "Spoken like a man who knows grief."

"But not rationality."

"Death is not rational, and we see it every day. It stands to reason that we crave it as much as we fear it. Irrational as it gets."

Will shudders, eyes slipping closed. It opens something up inside him, the way Hannibal says it like it's simple; only natural.

"Is that what you're afraid of, Will?" Hannibal asks. "That you find beauty in terrible things because of what happened to you?"

Will stares up at him, shocked silent. Hannibal's face is thrown into sharp shadow in the semi-dark. His hand settles gently on Will's shoulder.

"Don't be afraid."

Will bites his lip. He's afraid of what he'll say if he speaks. He reaches out hesitantly, not entirely sure what he wants to touch on the Conte, aware he probably shouldn't. His fingers make contact with a woolen sleeve and he makes a soft noise of dismay at himself.

Hannibal's chest hitches just slightly. "Are you finished looking?" he murmurs.

"Yes." Will nods. "I'm- I shouldn't have come in here without your permission, I'm sorry."

"You needed a moment alone?"

Again, it's an out, but it's not entirely the truth. "I just wanted to be- with them, I suppose. Ugh- that sounded..."

He stutters to a stop at Hannibal's expression. He looks completely verklempt. He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment. "Will," he breathes.

Fearing he's overstepped, Will pulls his hand back, crossing them against his chest. He looks at his shoes.

"You're welcome in my studio whenever you'd like," Hannibal says after a moment. He keeps his own hands on Will's shoulders, touch careful. "There's no need to apologize."

"Very well then." Will chances a look up. Hannibal looks immeasurably curious and makes no bones about it.

"Let me show you to your room."

Will nods mutely. Hannibal leads him through the dim corridors of the house, up another staircase and to a room that Will would sooner describe as a suite.

"Here you are. And don't hesitate to ring if you need anything."

"Ring?" Will spins around.

Hannibal points out a discreet cord in the corner. "There is water, however, should you need refreshment. Are you about ready to retire?"

"I think so," Will murmurs.

"Very good." Hannibal steps back to close the doors neatly. "Good night, Will."

Just like that, he's gone, and Will is alone. He does a slow circuit of the room, touching things. Even as fortunate as he was, coming into Maximo's care, this is a level of wealth he's never experienced. Someone - the ever-present Chiyoh most likely - has lit a small fire in the hearth. Will inspects the painting over it.

It's Prometheus, he thinks, lashed to a rock, innards trailing as the eagle consumes flesh. It's such a tangible horror that Will puts his own hand protectively over his stomach. It doesn't look quite like Hannibal's work, but it could be an older painting. Will studies it for a few long minutes before moving to the grand bed in the centre of the room, beautifully dressed. He bites his lip at the thought of disturbing it. Anything in this house seems so easily disturbed.

His mind wanders back to the painting of the blonde child again, the bone-white brambles of antlers on the walls. He thinks of it while he washes up for bed, and slides under the covers in just his braies, self conscious for it. The palazzo is full of dead and beautiful things. He's not sure which he truly is.

Head still swimming slightly, he closes his eyes and lets himself drift.


	2. Chapter 2

Quietly closing the door to the Prometheus bedroom, Hannibal takes a deep breath before walking on soundless feet back to the balcony. Will's scent still hangs on him like a veil, indescribably new. Hannibal had known just to look at him that he was beautiful, but he hadn't anticipated quite how liberally that word could be applied. He's like a young lion - sleek and loose-limbed and imprecise with his claws.

Claws that needle a little too close to the vein, sometimes. Hannibal goes to his studio to pick up the painting of Mischa, turning it in his hands for a moment as he thinks. How did Will know to choose this one? What drew him? There is so much at work behind those pretty eyes, that soft hair and skin. He burns to know more about it.

Tomorrow, he thinks, setting the painting on the windowsill nearby. They can talk tomorrow. He hopes Will won't insist on leaving immediately. He hadn't seemed to want to stay overnight. That might have been borne more of politeness than reluctance, he supposes. Will has the particular strain of resigned politeness learned from years of being the poor relative. Hannibal isn't sure if he finds it sweet or lip-curling. With a face, a mind like his, he ought to be in a position to demand whatever he desires.

He's obviously favored too, by Claudius- harmless as he is- and a few of the others at the university. But it seems to mean nothing to him; or at least, nothing besides a means to his end. Does he even know what that is?

Hannibal sees the fascination in him, and a desire to know, to clasp it all in his hands and know how form can be so easily dismantled- and when he knows, what will he want?

What will he become?

Hannibal feels an equal fascination. He sits down in the studio to make a couple of drawings, mind fast at work. There are so many themes he'd love to explore with Will. He's eagerly anticipating what his input will be to his propositions.

Hannibal is certain he'll have some to share. Probably all evisceratingly indifferent. It makes Hannibal feel rather wild. The image of him cradling Mischa's portrait haunts him until he gets it down on paper. That exorcises a few demons from his eyes.

He's adding the shadow to Will's hair when Chiyoh arrives in the doorway, silent and patient. He looks up, beckons her in. She leans over his shoulder slightly, thin arms folded.

"You like this one."

"You do not?"

"He has a slipperiness about him."

"Not necessarily a bad quality," he scolds gently.

"You would say that."

"I am saying that."

"He already has you figured out, that's for sure."

"What do you mean?" Hannibal murmurs.

Chiyoh reaches out and touches a finger to the paper, just under the miniature rendition of Mischa, cradled in Will's hands. "He found your heart."

She's right, and it feels like a thin steel needle. He wets his lips. "Arguably, there isn't one to find."

She makes an unimpressed face. "Buried back home?" she says archly. "You wish."

"There's nothing left back there, and you know it."

"So do you." She touches his chest, briefly. "You'd be wise not let him get close enough to find it again."

"You were always wiser than I."

"Obviously not wise enough for both of us."

"No, you are determined to let me do what I will."

"Perhaps in the hopes that you'll discover your own wisdom."

"I am trying," Hannibal murmurs, touching the paper himself.

Chiyoh touches his shoulder gently. "It's late, Hannibal."

"I know." He looks up at her. "I don't need anything. You can leave me. Be good to Will if he needs anything in the night."

"And if I find him... looking around, again?"

"I've given him free rein of the studio and library," Hannibal murmurs.

Chiyoh nods. She takes her leave with a final glance over her shoulder at him.

He tries not to allow her disapproval to gnaw at him. For the most part, it doesn't. Will would probably be quite confused if he had witnessed even a part of their conversation. Hannibal intends to leave him no room for confusion in future. He sets his sketch down against his easel and rises for bed.

 

Sleep is elusive, knowing the palazzo has another resident under its roof. He's only lightly dozing when he hears the distant, almost inaudible sound of whimpering. He's on his feet in an instant. It's coming from Will's room.

He lights a lantern, pulling on a robe and moving across the echoing upper floor, hand finding the door handle, pausing before he twists. The whimpering is much louder. Will is tossing and turning in evident distress. Tossing consequence to the wind, Hannibal goes inside, closing the door behind him silently and moving to Will's bed. He sets the lamp down and lowers himself down to sit on the edge of the mattress.

Will jerks, but it's in sleep, the scent of fearful sweat wafting from the damp mess of his hair.

Hannibal whispers his name. "Will, it's all right. You are safe."

He turns again with a cry, and Hannibal finally reaches to still him, setting his palm against his nape, noises gentling. Will's back arches.

"Shhh," Hannibal murmurs, thumb stroking behind his ear, "calm yourself."

He keeps the gentle contact up until Will quiets, breaths falling into pace with the sweep of his thumb. He never fully wakes, just turns his face back into a pillow and relaxes by degrees. Hannibal retracts his hand when he's still, and waits a few beats to see that his nightmares don't sweep back in.

He's quieter now, his breathing steady. Rapt, Hannibal watches his tiny, fractious movements, and wonders what he sees. If he asks tomorrow, he wonders, would Will tell him? Would he even remember? And does the answer sit in the chair beside his bed, smoothing the frown from his brow with gentle fingers?

Presumptuous, most likely. But he can no more stop himself in this than in anything else he's done today.

He allows himself to sit a while longer, and then finally pulls himself back toward the door. The sullen little lamp accompanies him back down the hall to the next chamber - his own. He returns to bed, and stares at the lantern on his bedside until the flame gutters out in the wax. Finally, he closes his eyes.

 

He's next greeted by a slow finger of sunlight. He washes and dresses, listening to the silence of his home, thinking of last night. Downstairs, Chiyoh is making breakfast, a knife flashing the sun against the ceiling as she peels fruit. He watches her for a moment. Most people of his status never set foot in the kitchen, but Hannibal dislikes conventions.

"You had a bad night," she comments, watching him pick an apple from the selection and rinse it off.

"No, it was not mine," he murmurs, stripping the peel with his own belt knife.

 That earns him a considering silence. He eats a slice of the flesh off the knife and looks out at the vineyards beyond the grounds. "We will see if the morning is better."

He can feel her watch him for a long moment. Eventually, when he's moved to the dining table, Will arrives in the doorway. He's freshly washed, if a bit mussed, damp curls giving him a dark halo. Hannibal pushes down the breathlessness the sight of him inspires.

"Good morning, Will."

"Good morning, Conte."

"Hungry?" He points at the table setting.

"Yes, very, thank you." Will makes himself a plate and Hannibal pours him a coffee. He looks fresh faced and soft angled in the morning light.

"Are you rested?" Hannibal asks politely.

"Yes, I was very comfortable, thank you."

He lies well. Or perhaps the nightmares are that commonplace. Hannibal nods anyway. "Glad to hear it."

"Could I tempt you into the studio this morning?"

Will glances at him, apparently caught off guard. He quickly rallies. "Oh- to pose?"

"If you have nothing pressing to do at the university?"

Will blinks a few times, thinking. Hannibal watches his eyelashes. "No, no- not today."

"I won't keep you all day. Just some sketches, perhaps."

A small smile at that. "... As long as you like, Conte."

"Hannibal," he repeats again, patiently.

"Hannibal," Will echoes, softly. He smiles at his feet.

"Eat," Hannibal urges him.

Will does, picking delicately at pikelets and figs drizzled with honey, his curls glowing in the path of a sunbeam. Hannibal watches him more than he remembers his own meal. He wants to draw him like this. He wants to draw him every way.

If Will notices the close regard, he doesn't comment. His pale eyes flash, their gaze snagging. Will licks a bead of amber off his thumb and smiles.

Hannibal clenches his jaw. Not so innocent, then? Or genuinely oblivious- but Hannibal knows then that Will is aware of his attention.

"Tell me what your homeland is like, Hannibal?" Will asks, politely for all that.

"Very well," Hannibal murmurs. "Though I imagine it has much in common with yours."

"Maybe. I can tell you about mine too."

Hannibal takes a deep breath and describes Lecter Castle, the surrounding village and forests. "There were black swans on the lake in my boyhood, I don't know if they remain."

"It sounds beautiful. Have you painted them?"

"I regret I have not."

Another delicate finger-lick, the scent of figs curling to Hannibal's nose. "You should."

A curl of warmth goes through him, and he drinks in the sight of his pale wrist. "Perhaps I shall." He smiles, sharply. "But not before you."

"Not before me," Will repeats, tacit agreement.

"Tell me of England," Hannibal says.

"Mostly greys and greens," Will murmurs, "trees and heathers. Some cities, London the largest, but-" he pauses.

"But?" Hannibal looks at him steadily.

The boy stretches his shoulders; realigns himself. "I prefer the country."

Hannibal nods. "I have found it restful, after many years in Venice."

"Yes. Padua is beautiful but... distracting."

"What distracts you, Will?"

"Noise. People."

"I see."

Will looks a bit embarrassed, now, like he can't bear the sting of misunderstanding. "There are exceptions."

"I'm glad to be such."

"You're more than that." Will's cheeks flush faintly.

Taken faintly aback by the admittance, Hannibal opens his mouth, then closes it. He can only smile, for a second. "Your compliments are like pearls," Hannibal tells him.

"Difficult to find? Often misshapen?"

Hannibal finds his smile only grows. "Precious," he corrects, meaningfully. "Are you finished eating?"

"Yes," Will says, turning red.

Rising, Hannibal gestures. "Shall we?"

Will stands up too. Hannibal admires his slim young form for a moment while he's distracted. He wonders if he's more tender for it. He certainly looks like a lamb, liquid eyes and soft curls.

They walk in silence to the studio, and Will hovers a bit while Hannibal sets up. "It's beautiful in the day," he murmurs, leaning against one of the balcony doors. The breeze from outside ruffles his hair.

"The grounds?" A nod. Hannibal sets some paper against his easel. "Perhaps we could walk a while, later."

"Yes, I would like that."

"As would I. Are you staying there, or sitting?"

Will smiles, slides down to sit in the doorway. The sun caresses his face. Hannibal nods, arranging his easel a little more toward him, standing back to sketch composition. It's a good pose, dynamic without being hard to maintain. Will is once again more perceptive than expected. And he's still smiling, just gently, his focus somewhere outside. Yearning, Hannibal thinks.

He starts to draw, thoughts quieting. The first page is just studies, Will's face and hands, the curve of his throat. He works quick and loose at first, narrowing lines for precision as Will relaxes. There are so many myths he could use; an embarrassment of riches. Even just Will himself, unadorned, is riches enough. Hannibal stops to just look at him for a few breaths.

"Hannibal?" Will says softly. It's as if he can feel the gaze, a pause settling over the entire room like a fine layer of dust.

"Will." He goes studiously back to the paper.

"Would talking distract you?"

"Not anymore than I'm willing to be distracted by you."

"I'd like to talk, then," Will murmurs.

"What would you like to talk about?"

"Anything really? Medicine, books...yourself..."

"As with the nature of our agreement, I expect any information I give you to be exchanged for something of fair value, of course," Hannibal muses.

"How will I know if it is?" There's an edge of teasing in Will's voice, he imagines.

"I will make you aware. You must do the same for me."

Will nods. "I understand." Hannibal smiles, waiting. "Why did you do it - pick art over medicine?"

"I always painted, and often in medicine I felt that parts of my soul remained undernourished."

"That isn't true of the opposite?"

"Undeniably it is, but I had devoted many years to understanding the body. I felt the pull of the mind."

"I do regret," Will hums, "that you were no longer teaching when I arrived."

"No need to regret it now, I dare say this will be a more thorough education." Hannibal enjoys the quiet significance the words have, falling unopposed between them.

Will bites his lip against a wry smile. "I look forward to it." It's charming, but fleeting. Hannibal has only his memory to rely on if he wishes to commit it to paper. Thankfully, he has a very good memory. Will is quiet for another moment, perhaps waiting for a question, perhaps thinking on Hannibal's answer.

"Do you dream a lot, Will?" Hannibal asks.

"More than other people, you mean?"

"I wouldn't know the amount other people dream."

"I don't know. Probably, yes."

Hannibal tilts his head, eyeing him over the easel. "What did you dream about last night?"

Will doesn't show any signs of surprise, or hesitation. "I dreamt about drowning in a sea of bodies. I called out but no one could hear me, and the more I struggled, the more they fell in on me. There was... something watching."

"What was it?"

"I don't know." Will bites his lip. "Stygian. Some sort of demon."

"Who were you calling to?" Hannibal murmurs.

"I was calling to him, I suppose."

"And he was...unforgiving?" He almost holds his breath while he waits. Will's eyes take on a new sort of distance: reluctant understanding.

"He was curious."

"About you?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

"Or about what you'd do?"

Will sighs. He briefly raises a hand to rub his eyes. "Perhaps. I don't know. The dream changed."

"What did it become?"

"Something different," Will hums.

When Hannibal glances up from his page, Will has an eyebrow cocked, expression gone taciturn. Hannibal returns the eyebrow, if not the expression. "Tell me what you dreamed next, Will."

"I can't be sure," Will hums, superficially reluctant, "but I believe I was Ganymede."

Hannibal rewards his honesty with a smile. "My apologies if my story invaded your dreams."

"Most things do."

Hannibal flicks another look up and down his body. Still sitting casually, alert but not outwardly tense. "That active imagination of yours, again?"

"Oh, always," Will laughs softly. He looks almost weary at the thought, then.

Hannibal sets his pencil down and takes a step around the easel. "Would you like to take a few moments?"

"Would you?"

Hannibal smiles. The little mimic. He's delighted. "Let's get some air."

He stops at the sideboard to pour them both cups of a crisp cider Chiyoh keeps on hand for him.

Will stands, and Hannibal watches him wander out onto the balcony, gait easy. Hannibal follows, bowing slightly as he presents the goblet, knowing it will garner him a smile.

"Thank you," Will murmurs, leaning even after he's accepted the drink and then catching himself. "Am I permitted to see your progress?" he asks, eyes flashing to Hannibal then back to the fields.

"They're just preliminary sketches, but you may." He takes a chance and follows him to the rail, setting a hand against his back. Startled, Will's chin jerks, eyes searching his face, but he doesn't pull away.

Hannibal doesn't do anything more. Will looks out over the balcony again, chin setting in a decisive, triumphant way. He wets his lips with a deliberate swipe of his tongue. Unexpected. Not that it settles anything in particular. And then Will settles back into his palm with a slight sigh. He looks at Hannibal again, like he's daring him to confront it. Hannibal is used to being the aggressor, certainly, but he doesn't typically react well to dares.

"What can I do for you, Conte Lecter?" Will asks, halfway between arch and breathless.

"You've already done a great deal," Hannibal murmurs.

Will bites his lip. "Don't say that."

"Why ever not?"

"I haven't done anything for you," Will murmurs.

"On the contrary, you've given me a great deal of your time and attention already. I would hate for that to go unappreciated."

"I can see that you appreciate it," Will chuckles a bit.

How forward. Hannibal can't curb his smile. "Perceptive," he praises him softly.

Will smiles. "So I've been told."

Hannibal feels a flash of jealousy. "By whom?"

Will's expression tells him he's more transparent than intended. He grins. "No one that matters."

"Well, at the risk of being repetitive," Hannibal murmurs.

"I doubt anyone could ever discount you as predictable, Conte."

"Perhaps in certain things," Hannibal allows.

"Pray tell."

"I find that certain preferences can be counted on to be reliable, that is all."

"As in your own?" Will's eyes sparkle a bit as he challenges him, color rising in his cheeks.

"I find myself eminently reliable." Hannibal deliberately removes his hand. "Are you ready to start again, Will?"

He bows his chin in a single nod before draining the rest of his drink and preceding Hannibal back into the studio. Hannibal instructs him matter-of factly how to return to the same pose, though he barely needs it.

Will seems more comfortable now, the long line of his throat bared, hair curling around his jaw. It's as if knowing he's desired - does he? He must - has made him more desirable. Hannibal admires his unrefined sweetness as he draws. He keeps coming back to Ganymede.

"So you live here alone," Will says eventually, voice careful, "you're a distinguished scholar and artist, and your subjects of choice are male nudes and dead things." His brows quirk, eyes innocuously wide. "I'm guessing that's significant."

Hannibal doesn't rise to the bait, merely murmurs, "It is an interesting hypothesis you propose, Will. How will you test it?"

"I haven't decided yet." He flicks his hair from his eyes. Hannibal merely hums and picks up his pencil.

They continue in this vein for a couple of hours longer, the quiet interspersed with soft conversation, until Will starts to look restless. Hannibal pauses, finishes shaping a curl. "Would you like to stretch again?"

"Yes," Will says. They've been mostly quiet this time, Hannibal hesitant to start their mutual questions. He watches Will rise, and allows him a moment to himself.

"Another drink? Lunch?" he asks after a moment.

"Can we take that walk?"

"Of course." He sees Will peek at the easel as he walks by it. He stops short. Hannibal waits, curious at his thoughts.

He leans in to look closer. "I look tired," he murmurs.

"So you do." This time Hannibal touches the thin skin under his eye, just a feathery brush. Will closes his eyes, like he's immobilized by it.

"I feel tired." He looks so fragile, for a moment. Hannibal wants to cup his cheek, but resists.

"You wouldn't prefer a rest to a walk, in that case?"

"No," Will shakes his curls emphatically.

"Very well. Come." They clatter downstairs to the foyer, emerging into bright sunlight. Hannibal leads him down a path through the formal gardens, into the vineyard. Fingers trailing the vines, Will smiles, turning his face to the sun and savoring the warmth.

"I don't know how you could ever leave this place," he murmurs.

"I very rarely do."

"At the call of the university?"

"Occasionally. Unfortunately, even I can grow bored of my own company."

"Surely not?" Will affects a gasp.

Hannibal gives him a reproachful look. "Hard to believe, I know."

"Terribly hard." Will smiles and takes a few steps away. He winds through the lanes, stretching his arms for balance as he walks along a raised bank of earth between the rows. Hannibal grinds his teeth together for a self-indulgent moment. "Tell me another story," Will says, apropos to nothing.

"A myth, you mean?"

"Whatever kind you like."

"I'm reminded of nothing so much right now as the garden of Eden, but I suspect you know that one."

When Will looks back over his shoulder, his smile is impish. "Cast out for succumbing to temptation?"

"For eating from the tree of knowledge, yes."

"Sounds like you and I would be condemned immediately." Will shoots Hannibal another meaningful glance.

"You might be permitted to stay, I think."

Will laughs. "So you think."

"I couldn't say for certain." He'd like to be able to say for certain. He'd like to crawl inside Will and inspect him from the inside out.

They walk on in thoughtful silence for a while. Eventually, Will turns to him, gaze searching. Licking his lips, Hannibal waits politely. "I'd rather be out here with you than in Eden," he says, decisively.

"In that case, may I show you the apple orchard?"

Will gestures, a mirror of Hannibal's own hand sweep yesterday: _be_ _my guest_. Hannibal, true to his word, takes him to the orchard, watching leaves dapple his face with shadows.

"It's beautiful," he murmurs, wandering between the trees.

Hannibal reaches up into a tree and plucks an apple, absently peeling it with his knife as he follows. When Will comes back within reach, he holds out a slice on the edge of the blade. Without shame, Will takes hold of his wrist and removes it delicately with his teeth. Then, he wanders away again.

Hannibal finds himself staring after him for too long of a moment. He's almost irritated by the pleasure he felt at seeing the boy's teeth; his pink tongue. No; he is irritated. Hannibal is not in the habit of denying himself pleasures. He takes them, as a rule; he does not wait for them to come to him. With that thought in mind, he cuts another slice off the apple, eating as he follows Will through the trees.

Will isn't moving fast at all, more meandering. "Whose turn is it for a question?" he calls back. "Is it mine?"

"I believe so."

"Have you ever painted yourself?"

"No, never."

"Why not? I thought it was common, for artists."

"I find myself guilty of less obvious vanities. Aside from that, I would hate to be thought lacking in imagination."

Will eyes him silently for a moment. "I don't know who could think that."

"Regardless, we all have our insecurities."

"And yours is not being found interesting?" The way he says it, it's not really a question.

Hannibal shrugs. "There are more shallow fears." He looks at Will. "What would you say is yours?"

Will thinks about it carefully. "I have too many to name."

"Why is that?"

"Just my nature, I suppose."

Hannibal nods, eats another slice of apple. He wonders if Will uses his fragility to his advantage; if it's a shield as much as a burden. If he's aware enough to do so, it's a delightful sign of how his mind works.

Hannibal cuts another sliver of apple and holds it out to him. Once again, Will's fingers settle onto his wrist. This time, he meets Hannibal's gaze, just briefly. Hannibal fancies he sees a shiver. Again, he resists reaching out. It's getting harder. He allows himself the fantasy of feeding him the slices by hand. It's not that far from the truth. All that's missing is the velvety slide of pink lips.

Will hasn't retreated, this time, still chewing, tucking his hair back with a wry smile. Hannibal doesn't smile, he just looks. Will goes still under the attention, seemingly waiting.

"When must I return you to the University?" Hannibal murmurs, reaching to smooth back one still-wayward curl.

Will closes his eyes again at the touch. Hannibal would think it were distaste were it so obviously not the case. Perhaps no one touches the boy. Certainly he doesn't seem to have a pack of friends like some students do.

"I have classes tomorrow," he murmurs, sounding somewhat disappointed.

"A good meal and some time in my library then, and I'll have the carriage readied for later this afternoon. Yes?"

Will nods solemnly. "Thank you, Conte."

"It is my pleasure."

That brings a bit of pink to his cheeks again. "Will you start painting next time?" he asks hesitantly.

"I might make some paint studies with my sketches from today, but perhaps." He studies Will's expression. "I'll need to pick my pigments carefully to do you justice."

"Do you mix your own?"

"Of course," Hannibal murmurs.

"I'd be interested to see the process."

"I will keep that in mind."

"Thank you." Will smiles at him again.

Hannibal throws the apple core into the grass and holds an arm out to him. "Let's head back."

Will's fingers curl into the crook of his elbow. It's enough to encourage that fierce protectiveness in Hannibal again. Interesting.

As they walk slowly back towards the house,  Hannibal's eyes are drawn over and over again to Will's face. He's deep in thought, eyes down as they walk. Hannibal politely lets him have the time. They arrive back at the house and Hannibal steers Will toward the kitchen. Chiyoh is in there polishing the tableware, but at Hannibal's nod, she takes her leave: he often comes into the kitchen to prepare his own meals. Will looks mystified.

"Sit down, Will," Hannibal murmurs.

He obeys automatically, sinking onto a nearby wooden bench. "Your... companion..." he stalls.

"Chiyoh was my aunt's attendant before she died," Hannibal explains, amused. "She has chosen to stay with me."

"You have a familial energy between you."

"I suppose," Hannibal allows. "Perhaps I feel her to be a cousin, for all that she serves me."

He nods in understanding. "It's still an unconventional household."

"Convention is an undesirable trait, as far as I'm concerned."

"Good," Will murmurs distractedly. Hannibal waits a few beats to see if he'll elaborate more. While he does, he begins cooking meat for their lunch. He is fairly certain Will is building up to asking him something specific, but can't find the courage, or the disregard, just yet. He can wait, even though he's owed a question. So perhaps...

Will bottles it, though. "When do you want me to come back for the next session?"

"Whenever it's convenient," Hannibal assures him. "A note left at my lawyer's office in Padua will reach me as promptly as possible, if you require time to consider your schedule."

Will nods, taking a sudden interest in his hands. "Can I help with anything-?" he asks, gesturing at the preparations.

"Do you cook?" Hannibal asks.

"I cut things up."

Fair point. Hannibal slides a bowl of vegetables his way and hands him a knife. Will's hands are careful and steady. Hannibal looks only as long as he can without ruining their meal.

"How can I reach you, Will, if I need you?"

"I board with Signora Fellini in the student quarter," he says. "Of course, I'm at the University nearly every day as well."

"Very well," Hannibal nods.

Will glances up for a moment, knife suspended. "Will you need me?"

The urgency behind his eyes pierces Hannibal. Where he might normally offer a distraction or platitude, he now offers the truth. "Undoubtedly."

Will smiles. It's nearly blinding. "You only need send a carriage, and I will come," he says quietly, "there's nothing I work on that I can't bring with me."

Hannibal would be deceiving himself if he denied the possessive thrill in his chest. He's sure there will be moments when Will isn't feeling quite so malleable, but until then, he's happy to luxuriate in the new, shy intimacy that has appeared between them. It's intoxicating, the unfamiliarity of it. Without dissecting the impulse, he abandons what he's doing for a moment and goes to Will, touching his shoulder and hair and bending to be in his space.

"Thank you."

He hears a catch in Will's breath. "It's- it's all the least I can do." He's clearly expecting more. He's partway between tense and poised, eyes down but his face distinctly angled toward Hannibal. It's unfairly captivating.

Hannibal indulges himself with a quick swipe of the backs of his fingers over Will's cheek. It's both that and an experiment, the results thrilling. Will puts his knife down with a clatter, eyes clenching shut when Hannibal's thumb ghosts over his lashes.

"Hannibal," he says, quietly.

"Yes, my dear Will?" He tilts his head. Again, Will seems overwhelmed, opening his mouth to speak and managing nothing but breaths. Hannibal waits.

"Is this- are you-?"

"Am I?" Hannibal keeps his voice soft.

"I'm- curious about your motivation for touching me as much as you do," he continues delicately.

"Well, I enjoy it," Hannibal murmurs.

"I wasn't questioning that."

"Then what were you questioning?"

Will finally looks up at him, mouth bowing nervously, eyes pleading. He looks very young in the moment. "How else would you like to touch me, Hannibal?" he whispers.

He's been seen, and understood, clearly. Not that he was trying to hide anything."It's a rather long list."

"Oh." His voice comes out shaky. Even so, he doesn't make any moves to pull away. "Yes, I thought so."

Without explicit permission, however, he feels it wisest not to. "How does that make you feel?" he asks, carefully.

"Nervous."

Well, then. Hannibal releases him carefully, and with reluctance. That doesn't seem to be what he wants, either.

"I didn't mean- I didn't mean opposed."

"You also didn't mean enthusiastic." Hannibal returns to his food preparations. Will stares into the mid-distance, not breathing for a moment. His distress is obvious enough that Hannibal stops. "Will?"

"I didn't want you to stop," he says quickly.

"Didn't you?"

"No. I haven't wanted you to stop all day."

Hannibal takes a moment to consider his options. He doesn't trust himself to move, not just yet, because that will only yield one outcome. There is far too little time left in this day for his liking. "I can touch you anytime you like, Will," he says finally, "all you need do is tell me."

Will nods automatically, fingers tapping the hilt of the knife. He seems to be having the same conversation with himself Hannibal did, keeping himself more or less still. "I will," he murmurs.

Nodding in approval, Hannibal accepts the board of sliced vegetables he passes him, adding them to his pot. He himself collects a few pinches of dried herbs to add, watching Will's eyes track him.

He still feels his gaze when he's ready to serve lunch, leaving a bowl for Chiyoh's consideration as he gestures Will into the dining room with theirs. Two places are already set across the table from one another - Chiyoh's commentary, most likely.

They sit down, and Will devotes himself to his meal with a murmur of thanks, cheeks still stained pink. Hannibal asks him questions throughout their meal, polite ones about books and his studies. Gradually, he starts to relax. The tension from the kitchen appears evaporated but not forgotten by either of them. Hannibal wonders how long it will take Will to feel comfortable asking for what he wants. Stubbornly, he intends to wait.

 

As promised, after lunch he takes Will to the library, watching him move among the shelves from a safe distance as he sits down to sketch. He allows his awareness to lapse deliberately, as much as it ever can. It's a long time before he feels Will come to sit beside him on the bench, face pointed into the open pages of his book already.

Hannibal gives in to the urge to lightly stroke his curls. Will's ears turn slowly pink.

Admiring the flush, Hannibal goes back to his drawing. It's not long before Will leans carefully into his side.

"You're not drawing me this time," he murmurs.

"Disappointed?"

"No. I can watch this way."

"Feel free." Hannibal smiles. He pictures Will by his side in other spots too. At the harpsichord. In the kitchen. In his own medical theatre. He represses a shudder.

"Where's that? It's beautiful." Will is still peering at the drawing.

"Paris," Hannibal murmurs. "Have you never been?"

"No, I haven't."

"It is worth the journey."

"I'm sure it is. You lived there?"

"For a time, in my youth." Hannibal sets his pencil down. Will looks up at him, curious. In truth, he's just having difficulty concentrating with the scent and feel of Will so close.

"Am I distracting you? I'm sorry."

"Yes, my dear, you are somewhat." Will makes to withdraw. "It's quite welcome," Hannibal murmurs. "I don't often have distractions."

"I imagine not much distracts you."

"Indeed not. Until the other evening."

Will smiles a bit at that. It looks a touch sly, this time. "What is it you found distracting? It can't have been my witty conversation."

"Do not do yourself a disservice, Will. When your nerves settle, you're quite brilliant." He touches Will's hair again, just gently.

Will sighs softly. He leans his cheek into Hannibal's bared wrist. They're both caught in the moment like insects in amber. Hannibal wants to curl his hand around it and keep it forever.

"If I believed in hell, I'd believe I belong there for my thoughts," Will whispers.

"What makes you say that?" Hannibal's lips curve, just faintly. "Are they impure, my dearest?"

Will huffs a bit, turning pink. "That's unkind, Conte."

"Forgive me." He spreads his fingers over Will's cheek, gently turns his head.

"Is this your apology?" Will asks.

"No," Hannibal murmurs, "this is." The press of his lips against the corner of Will's mouth is meant to be chaste. Will's hitched breath and fingers curling into the front of his shirt tether him a moment longer than he intended.

His eyes go very dark. "Don't stop," Will whispers.

Hannibal sighs. "Will..."

"Please."

Hands still gentle, Hannibal tilts Will's chin and kisses him again, this time with intent. His gasp sounds between their lips, and it is so sweet. Hannibal feels his hand tighten in his shirt and gently grasps his wrist to calm him. It trembles, and so does the rest of him. Hannibal pulls away carefully, worried now. "Will..."

"I'm sorry, I can't... stop."

"Then I must."

Will bites his lip, closing his eyes. "I... understand."

"I know. Don't concern yourself. You may need some time to think."

Will's face goes stubborn. "I'm not a child," he mutters.

"Nor am I. But if I do not send you home now I will never allow you to leave at all."

Will looks down at his book, a slight smile tugging the edge of his mouth. The possessiveness Hannibal was so reluctant to voice seems to calm him. It's unexpected, and enticing. Hannibal sighs at the thought and lets Will go back to his book for a while. He doesn't touch him. It seems wise.

Eventually Will sighs and closes it. Hannibal looks up from where he's resumed drawing. "Would you like to take it with you?"

"Yes," Will nods. "Along with the ones from yesterday."

"Ah, yes. Chiyoh will have packed those already, I know. Shall I check on your carriage?"

"Whatever you like, Conte."

Another feather light touch to Will's hair as he gets up. He cannot help himself. He leaves him to go seek Chiyoh out, in the kitchen once more. She fixes him with a steady gaze.

"Would you ask the foot man to bring the carriage around?" Hannibal asks. "Please."

"Of course." She watches him as she moves. He's not sure what she thinks she sees. He imagines she will let him know, in time. He returns to Will, suppressing his lowering mood carefully.

"Nearly ready," he murmurs.

"All right." Will stands. Hannibal bites his lower lip. For once, he's at a loss for words. He's unfamiliar with the feeling, and with the tightness taking up residence in his core. "I'll get my things," Will says, helpfully.

"All right. I'll meet you in the hall." He watches him go with another small sigh. He's rather dismayed at what he's feeling. How much he's feeling. It occurs to him that he could easily keep him. No one would notice, not at first. Hannibal wouldn't seem like an obvious suspect- he's met him once, in a public setting. He hardly suspects Will has close friends he'd have talked to about the invitation. The temptation is almost too much to resist. Will wouldn't like it, of course, but Hannibal could work around that too. He'd like it eventually. If he was patient. Hannibal feels less than, but Will deserves the utmost patience.

With that in mind, he shelves the idea. He's being rash. He'll need to approach this as a seduction on multiple levels. He goes to meet him in the foyer.

Will and Chiyoh are standing like matched statues by the large carved door. It looks as though not a word has passed between them. Hannibal suppresses a fond smile.

"Thank you for your attention, Chiyoh," Hannibal dismisses her gently. She gives him a nearly imperceptibly sarcastic bow as she goes. Will, meanwhile, smiles sweetly.

"Thank you for everything," he says, aiming a heartfelt smile somewhere around Hannibal's chest.

"Until next time, yes?"

"Yes." He nods. "Whenever that might be."

"Soon, I hope." Hannibal reaches out to touch his neck. Will's incremental turn into it- and the creeping flush- is enough to make him hungry. Finally, Hannibal lets him go. He opens the door for him, and Will ducks outside.

Watching him descend the steps, Hannibal follows after a second to bid him a final farewell. When Will is settled, Hannibal hovers at the door for a moment. "Be safe, Will."

If it confuses him, he doesn't show it. "Goodbye," he murmurs.

Hannibal smiles, and closes over the carriage door, retreating back to the house as the horses draw away. Chiyoh is waiting in the hall, but he spares her a single glance only. "I'm going hunting."

"I'll ready your horse."

He needs to escape these walls for a while. He needs to kill something. At the moment, he isn't feeling particular about what. Or who.

He goes to his chambers to gather what he needs, and when he arrives back downstairs, Chiyoh is waiting again. "If you leave in this mood -"

"What?" he challenges.

"Do not act recklessly," she urges.

"I never have." She doesn't reply. He waits, jaw clenching and relaxing a few times.

"I mislike to see you like this."

"And that is why I must go."

She does not tell him to be safe. He doesn't need it. She does hand him his gear, and watch him mount his horse in the yard. As he sets off at a canter, he refuses to let himself look back at her. She will find her time to scold him. She is the only one who has ever been allowed.


	3. Chapter 3

Will wakes up early, and spends a long time lying in the morning sun, mind turning over dreams he had; the clash of antlers among the underbrush, a crushing fray of bodies again, and curious eyes above him. From the color and expression of them, they could really only belong to one person. That's another matter altogether. Will's mind being yanked back to Hannibal feels like his feet being yanked from under him. He's instantly breathing like he's run across the university grounds. Last night he'd been so exhausted and overwrought he hadn't been able to think about it with any clarity. Now, it hits him afresh.

Hannibal - wants him, he thinks is the only phrase. Will isn't sure he didn't know it from the second he saw him, and it first it was terrifying.

It's still terrifying. But now there's something else underneath it, like it's warmed into curiosity, too. Will would have jumped in feet first if Hannibal hadn't fairly forcibly denied him. Being around him had been like drinking the wine he'd offered him- at first warming, and then desensitizing.

Will isn't used to wine either. He frowns at the thought. Perversely, he'd been more cringe-worthy sober, hanging off Hannibal like a child. It had seemed easy at the time. It had seemed welcome. And he wanted it. He wanted to touch him. He wanted Hannibal to touch him in return. And when he had, it had been _overwhelming_. Will had never wanted to be so badly contained in someone's hands and attentions.

The thought of going back makes him jitter, but so does the thought of not going back. The prospect of waiting in either juncture seems excruciating. He struggles out of bed and into some clothing. He needs a distraction. He needs to talk to somebody that isn't Hannibal.

Unfortunately, the number of people he enjoys talking to is very, very small. He has to go to the university to find someone, and even then it's not the library or the classroom that he goes to, but the resident stables.

Peter is currying a horse when he finally finds him, hands moving in slow, gentle circles. It takes him a while to notice Will, but when he does, he smiles.

"It's been a long time, Will," he says shyly. "But classes started, yes? I understand. Thank you, thank you for coming to see me."

"You don't have to thank me, Peter." Will goes to sit down on a mount stool, out of Peter's line of vision. "Don't let me distract you if you're busy."

"Are you sure, Will?"

"I'm sure. Just work."

Peter hums in acknowledgment to save nodding. Will waits until he feels easier, lulled by Peter's unsteady movements. They'd met very early on when they'd crossed paths outside of one of Will's professor's offices. Peter's surgery and subsequent recovery from a head injury is quite the object of interest in the college of medicine, though the relative fame has led to a small amount of harassment as well, which Will dislikes. Will himself finds Peter reassuring. The survivor of countless odds. He has no pretenses about him - he's honest and kind - and Will knows no one else like him.

"I met someone," Will tells him, uncertainly, "I think I'm afraid of him, but I want to know him."

"Why are you afraid of him?" Peter asks softly.

"He's different," Will murmurs.

"So am I. So are you." Peter shifts to the horse's other side.

"He's... more different than that."

"Oh," Peter says thoughtfully. "Did- did he scare you?"

Will thinks about it. "No, I scared myself." He's wary of putting too much on Peter- he's been through enough- but it seems only fair to be honest with him. "He sees the ways I'm - not normal - and he encourages me."

"That... doesn't sound like a bad thing, for you, Will." Peter peeks over the horse's back at him.

Will shifts a bit, shrugging. "Maybe not." Peter lets him think. "I think we might have similarities," Will admits quietly.

Peter smiles. "No reason to be afraid, then. You are good."

Will bites his lip, thinking. Peter doesn't know him completely. "It's not just that."

Peter hums. "What- what then?"

Will spears a hand through his hair. "I don't know how to explain."

"That's - yes, sometimes I don't either," Peter says. "I don't always know. But I feel."

Will looks at him, eyes soft. It's what he likes about talking to Peter. Peter knows sometimes the words aren't there. He sighs and watches him a while longer, turning it over in his mind. He can't tell Peter about the other part of it, he wouldn't understand that. He cares for nothing but his animal charges, at any rate. He's still quietly afraid of what saying it aloud would mean, anyway. He can't escape from the specter of Dante. He knows what circle of Hell he'd be consigned to, if he believed. As it is, he doesn't believe in the Devil- and by extension, God, he supposes- and he's not sure where that leaves him. Thinking things he's never said aloud, he supposes.

"Do you think he can help you?" Peter asks, mildly.

"I know he can," Will says immediately.

"Then... don't be afraid." Peter moves to the horse's head, stroking its nose. "Is he safe?" he asks, then.

Will can't answer that. "I don't know."

"You should be safe," Peter frowns.

"I- I might be. I didn't feel unsafe but- I don't know that he's safe." It sounds ridiculous to say it. He colors slightly.

Peter looks unsettled. But maybe he's just thinking too hard. He starts his sentence a few times, in a few different ways, and eventually manages, "Why not safe?"

"He... doesn't follow the rules."

Peter frowns again, taking in the words; the meanings behind them. Will thinks he understands, then, because he says "Oh" very softly under his breath.

"Right," Will murmurs.

"Maybe you need more time to decide," Peter suggests.

Will isn't sure how much he'll be given. He has promised Hannibal he will come when called- a promise he fully intends to keep. If he's sure of anything, it's that Hannibal will want certainty when the time comes. Will wants certainty too, he really desperately does. He just doesn't know where to find it. Perhaps the willingness to go is certainty in itself. It felt real enough in the sun, with Hannibal's arm linked through his.

"You're smiling," Peter says softly as he cleans the horse's hooves.

"Don't tell anyone you saw it," Will jokes faintly.

"I saw it," Peter smiles back. He brushes away the dirt he's picked out carefully. Will lets him finish another hoof before he speaks again.

"He wants to help me progress in my studies, as well."

"This is help too, help is good."

"I know. I know."

"Let him help you," Peter repeats, "and if he scares you again, or too much, you don't have to let him anymore."

Will doubts it would be that simple. For him or Hannibal.

"It doesn't seem like walking away is an option," Peter points out.

Will shakes his head. "No, I couldn't."

"So... it's the first option, then."

Will nods. "It seems so."

Peter carefully choreographs a shrug. "You're smart, Will," he says gently. "I trust you."

"Thank you, Peter." It's touching, really.

They sit for a while longer, in comfortable silence. Peter makes his soft-handed way through the rest of the horse's grooming and then carefully tips out a measure of feed. Will thinks of Hannibal again; feels his thumb stroking gently under the skin of his eye. He's not sure he's ever wanted something like this before, suddenly and without explanation. Though perhaps the explanation is simple.

"I better get to class," he murmurs, "but thank you again, Peter."

"I can only - only hope I helped, Will."

"It did. I promise." He touches him gently on the shoulder, a faint squeeze that makes Peter smile. "See you soon."

"Take care, Will."

Will nods and lets himself out of the stables. Some of the wriggling anxiety that resides in the bottom of his stomach has stilled, for now.

 

He goes to his lectures and mostly manages to lose himself in learning, only occasionally pulled back to thoughts of Hannibal. He suspects that won't change after he goes back. Nor that he wants it to. He waits for Hannibal's message. Waiting is harder when he's alone.

Finally, it comes. A messenger brings a scroll to his door, nearly a week after their meeting.

He asks for Will to come in two days time, and offers another visit. Will writes a hasty response, and gives it back to the messenger with little more than a nod of thanks. He's instantly afire with nerves. Two days. Another two days of torture. Another two days to let his imagination run wild.

He could scream at the thought. He doesn't usually need an external influence for that. He paces for a bit, disturbed by it all, the rising storm of anticipation he feels. He feels electrified. The heat of his room suddenly stifling, he throws open the shutters, taking a few deep breaths. He can do this. He thinks.

 

He does. His classes are distraction enough for the daylight hours, the library sufficient for the rest. When the carriage arrives on the morning of his free day, he's ready, with a small bag of clothing and Hannibal's books. He reads for the duration of the journey, keeping his anxiety in check for the most part. He doesn't look out the windows until they've nearly arrived.

When he does, the sun-bleached silhouette of the estate against the stark skyline makes his stomach twist again. It's so ostentatiously beautiful, sparkling like a jewel against a sky that's white yellow with sunlight. Like Hannibal, he thinks, and then sighs at himself. Too bad he believes the sentiment wholeheartedly.

The wheels of the carriage rumble as the carriage finally clatters into the courtyard. The attendant is once more the one to open the big carved doors. Will pauses at the sight of Chiyoh waiting.

He knows she dislikes him. This isn't exactly an unusual occurrence for him. Even so, he's not sure of the reason. Protectiveness, he assumes. He gives her a short bow at the door, which she returns as she lets him in.

She takes his bag. "If you would be so kind to return the books, the Conte is in the library."

"Thank you," Will says, taking the out with enthusiasm, starting up the steps. His chest is tight with anticipation.

Despite the heat of the day, the windowless library is shrouded in gloom, the shadows creeping in the torchlight - probably to protect old books, Will muses, as he steps in through the great doorway and listens for a long moment, straining over the sound of his pulse in his ears. The whispering sound of paper. He doesn't see Hannibal at all. He wants to call for him, but he's afraid he shouldn't. He instead busies himself with quietly returning the books he's holding.

Eventually, he becomes aware of Hannibal at the end of the row. Though he can't see his face in the dark, he can tell he's pleased to find him here.

"Will," he says softly. "You shouldn't be doing that in the dark, you'll strain your eyes."

"I can remember where they're from." There's a torch not too far, anyway. Will slots the last book back, and goes to Hannibal like he's being reeled in. "It's good to see you," he says shyly.

"Likewise, Will. Thank you so much for coming. I hope I have not monopolized too much of your study time."

"No, not at all." He stands in front of Hannibal, and muses on his desire to touch him. It still feels forward. Everything that isn't waiting to be instructed feels forward. He swallows that feeling down. "How are you?"

"Very well, thank you."

"Good." Will nods. "Thank you for sending the carriage..."

"It is no trouble."

Will inspects the count. He seems to have gotten some sun since they saw each other last. Will is as pale as ever, of course. "What were you reading?" he asks.

"A book of poetry," Hannibal shows him the cover, "quite beautiful."

"It is," Will murmurs, touching the leather.

"I could read you some if you like.”

Will's ears warm faintly. "That would be nice, Conte."

"Then come." He holds out a hand, steering Will gently. He takes him to the studio, which has again been set with an assortment of comfortable furniture. Will's ears turn hot; in the fresh afternoon light the studio looks more like a bedroom, intimate and enclosed.

"Make yourself comfortable," Hannibal murmurs. Will sits down and accepts the glass of wine Hannibal offers. "I've settled on a pose, I think," Hannibal continues as he sips, seeming distracted as he flips pages.

"Oh-?" Will pauses, intrigued.

"Yes, Cupbearer," Hannibal replies. "Shall I arrange you now or later?"

Face flooding with heat, Will wets his lips. "We're reading first-?"

"I had thought it might relax you."

"I wasn't relaxed last time?"

"We made some progress."

"I suppose we did."

"Indeed." Hannibal picks up the book. Will tries not to think of his touch on his skin before Hannibal starts to read. He doesn't understand all of the words, but he knows Greek when he hears it. It's a soothing, rolling purr of noise, like a wave curling over into foam.

Hannibal was right - it is relaxing. Will closes his eyes, images bleeding into the black of his lids. A temple springs up around him, soft cloths winding their way around his naked form. The air curls with incense. Hannibal speaks shrouded in smoke, his eyes shining black in the dimly lit space; a priest with his sacrifice.

Will wonders which of Hannibal's debts he'll pay, before he shivers, forcing himself back into the present, where Hannibal's eyes flick to him for a moment, noticing his distraction. Will bites his lip in apology.

"It's beautiful, I'm just - restless, I suppose. Can't stop thinking."

"Perhaps it is not the right day for painting, then," Hannibal murmurs.

"No, no, that's - that's fine," Will says quickly, "just - I think it's nerves."

"Then we will simply begin, I think."

Will bites his lip.

"More poetry after-?"

"If you like. And maybe a walk."

Will nods. "All right. Explain the pose you'd like?"

Hannibal contemplates, and then moves toward him, hands guiding him gently into a sitting pose, one knee up and the other leg stretched out.

"This should be comfortable to hold for a while. Tell me if it is not."

Will nods, still buzzing faintly from feeling Hannibal's hands on him. He just wants so badly to do a good job, and though his people-pleasing drive doesn't always present in the traditional ways, this, it seems, is the least orthodox instance yet. Now though, Hannibal seems to note nothing unusual.

"Very good, hold that."

Will licks his lips and lets his body settle as Hannibal clips some fresh paper to his drawing board. It’s difficult, Will finds, not to follow his movements too much; to push down the instinct to freeze up when observed; not to draw attention. He's not sure he'll shake Hannibal's anytime soon, doesn't know if he wants to. He'd always known he was different before this but... he's starting to get a picture of just how different. It makes his stomach feel absurdly light, like he's standing on top of a high tower. It's equal parts nerves and a rightful click into place inside, like a clock hand meeting the hour. He's... meant to be here, with this man, looking at him like this.

He swallows at the realization, as Hannibal's eyes soothe over him from head to toe.

"All right?" he checks.

"Yes, fine."

"Good." He keeps drawing. He seems content, but distracted.

Will isn't sure how much he likes that aspect of it, but he can't think of a solution that doesn’t result in disappointment.

He manages another hour before the absence of his words starts to feel like a gulf opened in him.

"Conte-?"

"Will, are you all right?"

"I wondered if we could take that walk now?"

"Of course. Let me just put these things away."

"Thank you." Will gingerly sits up, feeling strangely submerged in his lingering stillness, as though he’d started to become a painting himself. Hannibal's hands are reassuringly gentle on him when he steers him downstairs, and although Will isn't sure why they need to be on him at all, but he isn't complaining.

It's a strange sense of achievement, that kind of attention, making the shivery feeling in his stomach return.

Outside, the sunlight washes away the cool of his doubt. It's another lovely day.

"Never used to be this sunny, back home," Will whispers.

"No, nor mine."

"I like the warmth, but I miss snow sometimes."

"You would look beautiful with snow in your hair," Hannibal muses.

That brings Will up speechless for a second. "I - would?"

"In any circumstance I can imagine, in fact."

Will pauses at the entrance to the apple orchard. "In my experience, people say something else to what they mean," he says, eventually, "but you say what you mean to make people think you mean something else. Blinding me with honesty."

"But you've deciphered my code."

"I have."

"Refreshing."

"For me, too."

Hannibal reaches over and snags his wrist, rendering Will breathless again, even more so when Hannibal raises it to his lips.

"Taking liberties today, Conte," he says, feeling braver than he normally might.

"Unearned?" Hannibal replies softly.

"I'm not used to being asked that."

"I'm not used to being interested."

"No, not much interests you, does it?"

"On the contrary, a great many things interest me."

"That's a lie," Will whispers. "You enjoy things, but the things that interest you - _genuinely_ , are relatively few and far between. You have selective appetites."

Still holding Will's wrist, he traces his thumb over the soft pad of his palm. "An important distinction, you're right, Will. What else can you tell me about them?" Hannibal asks curiously.

"Your appetites?"

"If you like."

"I wouldn't like to assume," Will says archly.

" _That's_ a lie."

"Judge, then."

Hannibal chuckles. "I have faith in you."

Considering, Will looks at his face. The measuring weight of his gaze.

"You like to play games," Will offers, "but only with those you deem... worthy. Being a doctor was enough for a while, and then it wasn't anymore."

Hannibal tilts his head. "Tell me Will, are you worried you'll feel the same?"

"Of course not," Will says automatically, stomach flipping.

He sees the smile touch Hannibal's eyes. "Of course not," he echoes.

Will bares his teeth in a barbed grin, feeling defensive, charged by their verbal back and forth.

“I think perhaps you like to play games too, dear Will,” Hannibal murmurs. He’s still holding his hand, and he lowers his head to kiss the crest of his knuckles, holding Will’s gaze without wavering. When he lets go, Will takes a shivery breath.

“I don’t usually meet anyone willing to play.”

“Or if they are, I daresay they’re not up to the task.”

“Are you calling me arrogant, Conte?”

“Arrogance is just another word for self-assurance, and there’s nothing wrong with that. I for one am delighted that you’re aware just how singular you are, Will.”

The air changes, and as Hannibal steps forward, Will steps back.

“I suppose I should consider you willing to play, then.”

“More than willing,” Hannibal assures.

“And what happens to the loser, in your version of the game?”

“What usually happens to those who lose, Will?”

Will takes another step. Again, Hannibal follows, the shadows of apple trees casting stripes over his gold skin like the markings of some great, agile beast. Ambiguously worded or not, Will knows the answer: in games, as in life, one way or the other, the loser is consumed.

First one step, then another, keeping eye contact for a long moment.

"Will-" it's half warning, half a dare.

"I'd hate for you to be bored," Will grins, and takes off in a diagonal through the trees. He's filled with a rushing, flooding heat: his own audacity, the potential repercussions. The potential embarrassment. But when he looks back, he sees Hannibal in motion.

Much faster than he expected, too, shedding his robe as he runs, the hard lines of his body made leaner in the mellow sun; stark shadows.

A little icicle of fear under the heat makes Will turn and put his weight into his run, changing direction sharply and going full pelt away from the house. Laughter bubbles up in his throat with his exhilaration, and it feels foolish, reckless, but his heart climbs into his throat nonetheless. Under his breaths he can hear his own footsteps, and the sounds of the trees, but Hannibal is a nearly silent pursuit.

Again, Will changes direction and jumps a low stone wall into an vineyard, threading through a row of spindly trees instead, ducking under the supporting canes of a few rows to put more obstacles between him and Hannibal. He hears him close by regardless, rustling ; a rushed breath of laughter. Too close, already.

Will veers sharply to the left and down the rows, downhill, letting himself slid halfway to gain ground when the hill gets treacherous. The sun streaks over his skin as he ducks in and out of the grove, over another wall and into a clear stretch of sunflowers, tall enough to drown him in woody stalks. He thunders through them regardless, clearing his path with his arms, mindless of seeds and insects tumbling into his clothes and hair. As the sunflowers thin, he sees that there's a shallow stream winking at the bottom of the valley, fencing off a more dense woodland that Hannibal must use for hunting.

With the heavy sound of Hannibal running behind him, Will puts on a spurt with the help of the decline, stumbling as he skids down to where the earth flattens at the edge of the stream. It's small enough that he clears it with a jump from rock to rock, then he throws himself onward into the trees: he has to get out of sight.

When he’s run himself ragged, he chances a moment hiding behind a few fallen trees, long since covered in moss and mushrooms in the damper winter. He’s sweating, panting like a mad thing, but even as the seconds trickle by he can't see or hear any signs of Hannibal.

Is it possible he lost him? He doesn't know this land. He waits a beat more, breathing hard. Then he hears a soft noise nearby.

He takes off through the trees without looking back, another burst of laughter escaping him before he can stop it. God preserve him, he has no idea what has come over him.

He hears the beat of footsteps behind him again and puts on a desperate sprint, seeing a clearing ahead in the trees. He'll stop there, he tells himself. It's just a little further.

"Oof-"

Hannibal hits him from the side and they go down swift and heavy, tumbling in a frenzy into the undergrowth. Will feels himself rolled so Hannibal is under him, then over him again, all grasping hands and fighting kicks, and when they finally still, there's leaves in Hannibal's hair.

Will would brush them loose if he could move his hands. They're pinned though, both of them shaking with exertion, drawing in great gouts of air for a long moment. The proximity of their bodies is intensely hot, drenched in adrenaline, and Will can’t resist closing his eyes; baring his throat when Hannibal’s cheek drops against his own and he keeps panting. His hands are strangely cold, but his body sheds heat, and the way he has Will encompassed by his weight and scent and sound is a drugging, mouth-watering indulgence.

Maybe he smells it, or sees it, but Hannibal suddenly seems to know how welcome he is, pressing his nose into the hollow of Will’s throat, a soft huff escaping him at Will’s wordless plea.

Slowly, deliberately, he rolls his hips down. It sends a shock through Will; a flush of heat, and he makes a choked noise. It’s glorious to know, in that moment, who has truly won.

With another burst of laughter, Will pushes him off and lurches into motion once more, giddy with the chase. He can hear Hannibal behind him this time, and it’s barely seconds before he tackles him again, and Will can't stop laughing even with his chin in the dirt.

Hannibal doesn't roll him this time, just presses into his back. After a moment he feels teeth prickle his nape.

"Conte-" he closes his eyes, breath coming out in a rush that disturbs the leaves again.

"Will," he murmurs. Now, his weight against his back is trapping and soothing all at once, the solidity of him from shoulder to thigh. Will takes another deep breath, tipping his cheek into the earth, baring his throat.

Hannibal's mouth climbs up the column from base to jaw, licking away the sweat and dirt accumulating behind his ear, under the tumble of his curls.

"Oh _God_ ," Will whispers. Until now he hadn’t quite acknowledged the heaviness in his groin; pooling pressure that fattens his cock, pressed hard into the ground by Hannibal’s body. It’s jarring, the reality of thoughts he’d scarcely dared admit to himself. As jarring as the realization of Hannibal’s unwavering strength, stamina, and ruthlessness.

As his teeth close delicately around his Adam's apple, Will is suddenly gripped by fear. His dream floods up around him, banishing the sun, and the mountain of dead crush him from all sides once more, the creature gazing covetously from atop the heap.

"Stay still," Hannibal instructs, and what might have thrilled him not one minute before now puts a dart of ice up Will’s spine.

He digs his nails into the earth; breathing is hard with this weight on his back. Hannibal’s voice pulling him back is only a tenuous hold.

"In this moment, Will, are you prey, or bait?"

"Oh, it's a choice?" Will whispers.

"Yours to make."

In the breath of a moment, Will twists himself into mental tangles trying to guess what _Hannibal_ wants.

The thought that he might be neither circles him, striking him with panic that jerks him under Hannibal's body.

Hannibal moves with it, seeming braced for it but not completely.

"Something else, then," he whispers in Will's ear. "Would you like me to let you up?"

"Yes," Will breathes, filled with shame.

Hannibal does, instantly, leaving behind a gulf of cold that has Will shivering when he's helped to his feet. Hannibal's touch goes only that far, and no farther.

"I'm sorry," Will says faintly.

"Do not apologize." His tone is gentle. "I'm anything but bored, Will. Let's get you something to eat."

He takes Will's elbow and leads him all the way back towards the manicured paths of the hillsides, all while Will tries not to vibrate with shame. It rushes up, stinging his face and eyes.

Eventually, as they near the house, Hannibal takes his shoulders.

"Will. What you are feeling is a normal reaction to an abnormal situation - but you are not normal, and it is beneath you to feel it," he tells him, voice even and steady, eyes gleaming. "You feel this way because you have a way of seeing inside people and sometimes it frightens you, doesn't it? Sometimes you get lost in it."

Will nods, biting at his lower lip.

"Are you afraid of what you feel, or merely afraid you shouldn't feel it?"

"Of myself," Will finally manages to whisper. Maybe it's not the answer he expected, because Hannibal tilts his head like a bird.

"Do you trust me, Will?"

 _No_. "Yes, of course."

Hannibal's mouth curves in a smile. "Regardless of whether that's true or not, you can trust that I will always allow you to be yourself, without compromise and without judgement."

"You might be the only one, then."

"Even so." Hannibal's voice is steady. Will wishes his was.

"Thank you," he whispers.

"When we return, I think I'd like to make you some lunch myself."

"I'd like that. I can help?"

"I'd be honored. People find it strange, you know. That I do work with my own hands."

"I find the opposite rather more confusing."

"You do, don't you." Hannibal's voice is warm. The knot in Will's stomach starts to loosen. Hannibal, against all odds, is still interested for now. Maybe he'd be less so if Will had given in to him, pinned to the forest floor. Will feels certain that he wouldn't be more interested.

They walk in more comfortable quiet, now. The sun caresses their shoulders.

"Do you feel better, having expelled some energy?" Hannibal asks.

"Maybe I will in a while."

"All right. Come along." He leads him up the steps.

Chiyoh is waiting on the stone steps of the house, having apparently spotted their return from the upper floors. She both sideways looks for the state of their persons.

"God, I should- wash or something," Will says, "and you're covered in dirt..."

"You do make a good point, please follow me," Hannibal says politely.

Seeing no reason not to, Will obeys. He finds himself in an expansive dressing room, with a door that clearly leads into the master bedroom. Hannibal selects a linen shirt and a pair of breeches for him and gestures toward a large water ewer in the corner. "Please. Allow me to provide a change of clothing while yours is tended to."

"Are you sure-? Yours will be big."

"Can't be helped, I'm afraid. Having Chiyoh do the tailoring would still leave you consigned to a night robe instead."

"Well, I suppose so."

"Go ahead, Will."

He goes to strip off his shirt and wash up while Hannibal carefully withdraws into the next room, his lack of attention almost an attention in itself. Will feels himself blushing all over his body as he quickly washes and puts on the borrowed clothing. Too big, yes, but finer than anything he's ever worn. It feels like mist on his skin.

"Thank you, Conte," he murmurs, when Hannibal rejoins him, looking as effortlessly resplendent as ever.

"My pleasure. Shall we?"

 

Back down to the kitchen. Will is getting more familiar with the layout of the house; the door out of the kitchen that must lead to a cellar. Hannibal disappears into it and comes back a few moments later with a basket full of vegetables and a cut of dark, silvered meat.

"Shall I cut things up again?" Will offers.

"As you wish. I'm happy to have your assistance."

"Really? You seem like you're used to being in control of your surroundings."

"I have faith in your ability to follow instructions as well," Hannibal teases.

"Not something I've ever been praised with before," Will muses.

"You haven't had me for a tutor."

"You gave up lecturing," Will points out.

"I'm better in a one-on-one context."

"Are you?" Will says archly.

"I've been told."

Will sniffs, accepts a knife and a pile of carrots.

"Suppose I'll have to see for myself." Then he starts slicing as instructed.

Hannibal gets out a skillet and starts to sear meat - it's not a cut Will recognizes. Then again, he's anything but an expert.

"What's the meat?" He asks absently.

"A young pig," Hannibal replies. "Very athletic, caused no end of problems with the herd."

"You keep pigs?"

"A neighboring farm."

"Oh." Will looks back to the knife in his hand, mind flickering briefly over the abstract concept of Hannibal existing outside of his interactions with Will. It’s strangely difficult to accept. He keeps chopping, Hannibal’s words whirling around in his mind. Will has never met anyone like him before, and yet, he sees familiarity in him. Understanding.

It's addictive. It's dangerous. _Being here_ is dangerous.

Will bites his lip at the thought: he'll need to guard himself.

 

They cook together, and after they've eaten Hannibal calls for a carriage, despite the fact they've barely done any of what Will ostensibly came here for. As ever, he gets his choice of new books from the library before he goes.

Hannibal, as before, hands him into the carriage personally. Will feels his parting kiss burning his wrist long after they've left the villa. He's never been treated like this, like an object to be treasured. He's not sure why he shivers, imagining the opposite: cool disinterest; placating smiles. Dangerous, he thinks again.

Hannibal hadn't smiled once, handing Will into the carriage. He hadn't needed to. He wants him, he's not shy about showing him. All that Will needs to do is give his consent.

He's still afraid. Afraid of how much he wants it; how Hannibal's touch seems to render him immobile. Mostly, it’s that first part, though.

Looking out the window at the sun-drenched countryside, baked grass and long trees and, in the distance, the sunflower fields Will had torn a path through only a few hours before, he sighs at the thought.

*

Where time with Hannibal had sent him home with fresh aches and worries, the following days back to his routine soothe it back into the shadows of his mind. He finds himself in the university library when a familiar face appears around the corner – the attending librarian, Sister Alana, looking solicitous.

He nods a polite greeting, more pleased to see her than he’d have thought possible. She’s a controversial figure here, often shunned and ignored by those small-minded enough to think women have no place in these great walls. She is, however, in service of the church.

"Will," she greets softly, moving to lean over the table after a quick look around - they're alone. "That doesn't look like one of ours."

"It's not." She waits, and he slides the book toward her. "Go on, have a look."

A strand of her dark hair spills loose from its careful covering as she peers down in fascination. "This is beautiful - do you know where it was printed?"

"It's from a private collection, I'm not entirely sure."

"Your patron?" she asks.

"You heard?" He's surprised he hasn't been grilled sooner.

"Everyone has heard."

"The Conte is very generous."

"So it seems." She caresses the deckled edges for another moment. "I've heard he's fascinating."

"You've heard correctly, then."

Alana tilts her head. "I'm sorry, am I overstepping? I was just curious."

"I just. I want to guard his privacy, l suppose."

"Nobel as ever."

"Or self serving," he notes.

"You? Hardly." She knows him well; she thinks.

"Maybe I'll surprise you one day," he says dryly.

"Maybe you will." Her smile is indulgent. Will has always liked her, and he knows he could more-than-like-her, with the right conditions, but his studies and the Conte have his head well and truly turned for now. Perhaps someday, if she chooses not to join the sisters.

She tilts her head at him knowingly, and he smiles at her as much as he can without eye contact.

"He's very generous," Will repeats softly.

"You deserve it."

"Thank you, Sister."

She pushes the book back toward him slowly. "Will, can I say one more thing-?"

"I sense you will regardless."

She pauses, and at his apologetic grimace, sits down beside him. He watches her small hands fold over one another.

"I've heard that the Conte can be a very complex individual," she says softly, "be careful where he leads you."

"Are we all not complex individuals?" Will asks, stung even while he realizes she's correct.

"Yes, you especially. But not everyone is as susceptible to influence as you." She says it kindly, and he hears the care there. This far away from the Conte, in time and in space, it's easier to believe, but he must look irate, because she soothes him. "I trust you to act for yourself, I just want you to go in armed."

He nods automatically. He wasn't prepared, before. He knows this.

"Thank you," he tells her, genuinely.

She bows her head at him and slips away with a soft goodbye, black skirts like a thundercloud.

Looking into the sunny space she left behind, Will wonders which direction he should tread: Hannibal's, or everyone else's. All he can tell is that they are distinctly not the same, and that neither is his.

 *

Will's professore is demonstrating to a rapt lecture hall how to crack a rib cage when the doors to the theater open and startle most of the room. The ripple of surprise that goes through the room is what gets Will’s attention, and when he looks around and feels his face turn pink. Hannibal Lecter is here, looking magnificent in formal robes.

Claudius greets him with a sunny smile - a sharp contrast to his grisly ministrations.

"Conte Lecter, an unexpected guest."

"I found myself at loose ends after a meeting," he replies. "What better occupation than visiting your theater?"

"You honor us, we were just conducting a practical demonstration, would you care to lend us your expertise?"

"I hardly think you require it, Professore."

"On the contrary, I've quite forgotten my bearings."

Hannibal smiles. "Very well." As he sweeps through the theater, undoing his robe, he casts Will a smile, so small no one else would know it were for him.

Will feels his face heat: this entire production is for him, of that he is unbearable certain. Is Hannibal... preening? He has to be.

Before he knows he’s doing it, Will straightens up in his chair: he needs to see every moment of this.

As Claudius makes a big show of looking puzzled, Hannibal indulgently obliges him by washing his hands and putting on one of the student overalls.

"Can you all see quite well?" Hannibal addresses the students politely. At the general murmur in the affirmative, he turns his attention back to the dead man on the table. "Very well. I will begin, if your professore will be so kind as to assist."

Will can feel that every person in the room is rapt simply at the tone of his voice, he himself is not exempt. Watching Hannibal manipulate the tools that open flesh; start to put his hands inside - it triggers a shortness in his breath he hadn't anticipated, and he freezes, trying to listen, hearing his own pulse sound loud. Hannibal is talking soft and melodic about his progress; extraction technique, as collected as if he still did this every day. Will closes his eyes against the absurd notion that he could be the body on the table.

 _Maybe if you'd given in_ , his traitorous mind whispers. The visceral need to have Hannibal's hands inside his chest is alarming in its strength, overwhelming him with images that punch him with unexpected, fearful arousal. He rockets to his feet, gathering his papers. He can't be here.

Hannibal raises his head, their eyes meeting. The professore looks up too.

"Conte, Professore, I'm sorry," he blurts.

"Will, are you well-?"

"I need to go."

A questioning silence.

"I am going," Will whispers, and he does.

There's panic in his chest in the same place he'd felt those warm fingers slipping over his innards, and he makes a quick retreat, not knowing where he'll feel safe, afraid of what he'd do, watching him much longer. He's afraid of a lot of things.


	4. Chapter 4

Rinsing the last of the oily soap off his hands in the empty theatre, Hannibal listens with a barely maintained tolerance to Claudius, chattering about his unexpected delight at his visit.

His own initial delight has soured to acid in his stomach; Will had fled the room like he'd seen the shadowy figure from his nightmares enter the room. Hannibal is still thinking of how he'd glowed sickly blue in the cold light from the windows.

Had it been a miscalculation, to visit his class? Hannibal had been so sure he'd be welcome. And indeed he had, but not by the one person he'd intended. It's not squeamishness, he knows, searching for something else. His thoughts alight on the moment in the kitchen at his home, when Will had watched him carve a loin with the same strange yearning. His frightened, high noise in the woods, shaking under Hannibal's body. Shame for the sheer wanting.

He's afraid of himself, afraid of watching Hannibal and _seeing_ himself. Hannibal has no time for fear. Not like this. Not Will's. Time to redirect, back to simple intrigue, maybe flattery - though he's under no illusion that Will can’t see through his motives for such.

Examining his feelings, Hannibal find himself suffused with a kind of crawling, cold anger, not the kind he expects, not hollow disappointment at Will's discourteous flight. It’s a far more dangerous fear – the kind that sloshes up inside with the unexpected unhappiness of a loved one. An error on his part, a grave one even.

"I apologise for my rudeness, Professore," he says suddenly, interrupting where Claudius is still talking, "but unfortunately I am overdue on my next engagement. I hope to see you again soon, thank you so much for allowing me to commandeer your lesson."

"An honour." The professore looks disturbed, likely because he's aware of Will and Hannibal's academic arrangement, though Hannibal is aware it would be more suspicious not to acknowledge it.

"Young Will - he seemed troubled today, is he quite well?"

"He's not an effusive young man, Conte," Claudius says slowly, "but he has been distracted, of late."

"Perhaps the strain of his education," Hannibal offers, half-heartedly, "he's a diligent student."

"Ordinarily. He'll have to study harder to make up for missing the lecture today."

"I'll see to it he's briefed."

"I knew you would, Conte." No hint of judgement or snide. Hannibal shakes his hand.

"Thank you again, Professore."

Then he takes his leave, his face flattening into expressionlessness as soon as he leaves the chamber. By the time he's out in the sun, he's got an idea of what he can do to steer Will's suspicions of him back toward the palatable. It will take some time, and some arranging, and above all some money, but Hannibal is willing to invest all three.

Halfway across the courtyard, he hears the sound of hurried footsteps behind, and staggers his own stride slightly, slowing. When he sees who pulls abreast of him, he must decide if he intends to be polite.

"Conte," voice reedy, Frederick Chilton's greeting is steeped in practised nonchalance, "what a pleasant surprise."

Another Englishman in Padua. Hannibal doesn't care for this one nearly as much.

"Frederick," he smiles, "the pleasure is of course all mine. Here to soak up the sights?"

"I'm very busy giving guest talks, of course," Chilton replies, "but how could I let you slip by without a greeting?"

"I'm certainly glad you didn't, good to see a familiar place in a city of strangers. I'm just here visiting my mentee, a brilliant young man who wishes to become a doctor."

"Taking an interest in the next generation, eh?"

"Altruism, I assure you. I'm getting old."

Chilton laughs. "As you say." He raises an eyebrow. "Though I wager having a brilliant young man at your beck and call is less about altruism than instant gratification."

Hannibal laughs, imagining sliding a blade deep into the other doctor's belly. "Seeing a student flourish under my tutelage is indeed gratifying, I'm sure you'll know that pleasure one day yourself."

"Perhaps."

They stand off for a moment. The courtyard is empty, and there's a brief moment, just fleeting, where Hannibal thinks he could invite Frederick for lunch; slit his throat in an alley and leave him to the flies. The expression of stunned surprise on his face would be nearly worth the trouble. Hannibal could take his money; hand it out to the needy, make it look like a mugging. The thought makes him smile.

"I regret, Frederick, I must be on my way. I hope to see you again before you return to England."

"May we both be so - fortunate." Chilton hurries off, always so desperate to look busy.

Watching him go a minute, Hannibal considers his impulses; weighs each carefully until he finds the heaviest: Will. He has to find Will.

He winds his way out of the university first, finding the bustling streets and the local goods market. Paper and pens, for his mentee. A small gift, to prime him for larger ones. He stops to look at a leather bound sketchbook, its cover embossed with filigree, and adds that to his selection too. The goods are wrapped in muslin cloth, but a fabric merchant further down the way provides him with an oxblood ribbon to make it more presentable, before finally he pays a courier to take it to Will's lodgings, along with a short, quickly composed note.

After that, he's restless, urges momentarily sated bubbling up again. He wants to _see_ him. Usually he can temper his impulses with ritual, with control, but he still feels the sting of Will's recoil, and it makes him want to tighten his grip. _Untenably_ so.

With a roll of his shoulders, Hannibal smooths himself down and heads back toward the university. He'll need his horse if he's to go to Will's lodgings. As he approaches the stable, though, he sees a familiar crop of curls, and stops dead.

Will is stretched on a bench, back against the wall as he watches the stable attendant distribute hay amongst the feeders, occasionally stopping to feed a nickering horse a handful. They're talking softly.

Hannibal, unashamed, finds a spot to listen.

"- I set up a bird house," the stable hand is explaining, in hoarse, halting sentences, "to, to watch them, to help them nest."

"And they came back, didn't they?" Will murmurs. "Even though they'd been scared?"

"Yes, they - they're smart, magpies. They know when you're trying to help them. What your intentions are."

Will nods. "Yours are good."

"Yes. Bad intentions have a scent, I think."

Hannibal tilts his head. Interesting.

"What do they smell like?" Will asks.

"To me, or to you? I think, I think - it's different."

"How does it smell to you, Peter?"

"Like b-bile," he whispers. "Acid, and uh, rot. On the wind."

Hannibal sees Will’s shiver, keenly attentive, weighing every word.

"To me, it smells metallic, like blood or copper."

The stable hand - Peter, Hannibal remembers his medical case now - nods, wringing his hands.

"When you came to me before, you were - you were nervous. Could you smell it then, with your tutor?"

Will licks his lips, looking nothing so much as if he could _taste_ it.

"Like it was under my tongue," he whispers. "Like it had been there for days, filling my mouth with rust."

"Will," Peter says sadly.

Hannibal peers to catch a glimpse of him, but his face is obscured.

"I'm sorry, Peter," he's saying softly, "I'm - I shouldn't put on you."

"Everybody n-needs a friend." A shuffling sound. "I know I do."

"Those students haven't been back, have they?" Hannibal is startled to hear Will's voice crack suddenly, like a whip flaying skin.

"They're always around, Will. Ingram, h-he. His mentor did my surgery, he f-feels. Entitled." Peter's voice is barely above a whisper.

"Nothing would entitle him to be cruel," Will replies, in a tone that's been carefully lowered to something soothing. "I told you to send for me if they came around. Any time, Peter, I mean it."

"You're too kind."

"I’ll always be your friend, Peter. But I should go," he adds.

"Come back anytime," Peter says softly, and then he stands very still as Will moves close, squeezing his arm gently before subsiding.

“I’ll see you soon, Peter. Take care for me.”

Hannibal catches Will's scent on the air as he hurries past his hiding spot; notes of citrus and steel, so sharp that his traitorous mouth waters. He watches Will go, forcibly resisting the urge to follow, girding himself against his own desires. Only when the feeling has passed entirely does he go in to retrieve his horse.

He thanks and tips the stable hand, Peter, regarding him curiously for a moment as he goes to retrieve the tack for Hannibal's horse. He might be the only person Hannibal's ever heard Will talk to as a friend. It’s obvious that Will sees things in Peter that he cultivates as his own qualities reflected in him, quiet understanding, strong moral inclinations, compassion. A startling contrast to Hannibal.

Hannibal, who's left in the shadows with his shiny apples and his whispered temptations. He feels a curdled, crude desire to smash Will's mirror, watching Peter sedately and carefully readying his horse. It doesn't escape him that this is the second person who's tempted his ire today. Something must be done.

"Thank you, Peter," he says softly, when he hands him the reins with a slight bow, "he looks resplendent."

“He’s – he’s a beautiful horse, sir,” Peter says simply.

“And you’ve taken excellent care of him.”

With a pleased nod, Hannibal mounts, and takes off at a canter. With the calm quiet of the stables behind him, his mind circles back to Will and his fear, and the hot frustration of uncertainty rises in Hannibal once more, boiling his blood the whole way out of Padua, the certainty that there’s only one remedy following swift and certain as day follows night.

He has nothing but a small hunting knife with him, but that's no matter. The chase is what matters, at least, it is today.

*

Despite being bone tired when he's finished his work, Hannibal is infuriated to find the fire inside him undoused. He'd left the man he'd hunted on the outskirts of the city in one of the many deserted alleys, his rib cage cracked open and hollowed, a magpie's nest tucked where his heart used to be.

He carries his organs in wax paper, tucked into a saddle bag, and hopes he will see his mentee before it spoils – it would be a great waste of catharsis to eat his catch alone.

Now, he has a long ride home, and a lonely one, the taste bitter on the back of his tongue, the distinct hint of rust beneath it.

*

When Hannibal goes down for breakfast the next morning, having been awoken by the boisterous sun and the call of birds, there is a letter waiting for him at the table.

He doesn't recognize the writing, nor the plain seal, but when he slits it with the knife from his pocket and scans over it, his attention is automatically magnetised: it's Will.

_Hannibal,_

_Thank you for the unexpected gifts, I hope my behaviour did not offend you on the day of your visit. I regret that my mind got the better of me. Please let me know if I can repay your kindness in any way._

_Will_

Hannibal can think of so many ways. Breakfast forgotten, he goes to his office to pen a reply at once.

_Dear Will,_

_I was delighted to hear from you, especially so soon after our last meeting. I regret any part I may have played in setting you off balance yesterday. Please allow me to make up for it; I have business I must attend to in Venice next week. I will be thoroughly occupied for the first half but I’d be delighted for you to accompany me there afterwards therein. It might help what ails you to rest for a while, away from the pressures of your scholastic efforts._

_I keenly await your response._

_Regards,_

_Hannibal_

He gets some work done in the studio before the reply comes, almost an entire painting's worth, Will gazing at him from the canvas with that look Hannibal remembers from the woods.

_Hannibal,_

_As I'm sure you remember, I made a solemn oath that if you called, I would come. Tell me when and where._

_Will_

Pleased, Hannibal scrawls back.

_My coachman will deliver you safely to me the evening of next Wednesday. He'll pick you up after your classes and bring you to my palazzo to change for dinner, be sure to bring something with which to entertain yourself on the journey._

_Affectionately,_

_Hannibal_

With the last message safely dispatched, he heads down to the kitchen to start a supply list for tomorrow's dinner. He already has a cut of meat in mind.

*

The following week, Hannibal heads off to his Venice apartments in the early hours, attending business with his contemporaries before dedicating his afternoon to the market and several tailor's shops. He's fairly certain he can accurately guess Will's measurements from the way his own clothes had hung off him, though he’s perfectly happy to have someone come in for alterations if he must. For now, all that matters is that Will receives his gifts with the carriage the following week.

He passes a week in a similar vein, dining with various acquaintances on the evening, filling his memory palace with sumptuous evenings at the opera and mornings walking along the bridges, the jade waters of the Grand Canal sparkling.

He collects Will’s gifts from the tailor shop, and admires them a while before packaging them up and sending them to him a few days in advance. He receives no note of thanks for this parcel, and it occurs to him that he may have offended him, but that doesn’t concern him overly.

When Wednesday rolls around, Hannibal spends his morning making bread and various accoutrements for dinner, before returning to his rooms to make himself presentable for Will's arrival. The guest quarters are prepared, the table set. An excursion planned for later in the evening, if Will so desires, plenty on offer in the city tomorrow, too.

Bathed, groomed and dressed as the evening falls proper, Hannibal starts to prepare dinner, thrilling inwardly at the prospect of having Will under his roof, and without Chiyoh looming, cool and knowing. She thinks she can keep him in check, that way. It's not the first time she's been mistaken. Smiling to himself, Hannibal trims the silver from the meat he's preparing for dinner. He's fond of her, and in many ways relies on her, but sometimes she forgets who and what he is.

When the meat is dressed and immersed in the stone oven, he hears a polite knock, and moves at once to answer. Opening it slowly to cast the moment in amber, he pauses at the sight that greets him: Will painted gold by a bar of honeyed sunlight from the landing window, standing before him in the clothes Hannibal had sent for him. He's a gilded Apollo, more breathtaking than the sunset itself.

"Good evening, Conte." He tilts his head, unsmiling but hesitantly warm.

"Good evening Will. I'm delighted you could join me. Please come in."

He does, looking around the lavish quarters with a faintly arched brow. Bright frescos illuminate the walls, the sun making everything gleam.

"May I also say that you look well," Hannibal adds softly.

"Thank you. Though I'm a little perplexed by - this," he gestures to his outfit. "I don't mean to be rude but I don't require financial assistance, Conte. So unless this is solely for your benefit..."

"And if it is?"

"Then, as ever, I'm happy to permit a certain degree of indulgence, so long as you're aware it's not expected."

"Of course. Please, join me at the table? I have wine and a small starter course prepared."

"Thank you."

Hannibal allows himself to wrap a guiding hand around his wool and linen-clad arm, lingering only briefly to pull out Will’s chair for him.

"Are you recovered from our near miss last week?"

Will's cheeks flush slightly. "Yes. I'm fine."

"Would you like to talk about it?" Hannibal murmurs, leaning over Will to pour him a glass of wine.

"No, but you'd like to talk about it."

Caught out, by this boy. He gives him a thin smile. "I feared I had upset you."

"No, it wasn't anything you've done, Conte, please believe me."

"Something I didn't?"

"Something I didn't. Or did. I really - it's over. I apologized to the professore. And now I'm apologizing to you."

"There's no need, but I accept regardless." He senses that's all he's going to get out of Will about it - at least with the direct approach.

However, Will is still watching him with an unusual openness. Unbidden, Hannibal finds himself still standing close, the wine long since poured.

"Sit with me," Will murmurs.

Hannibal nods and finds his own chair. He doesn't quite manage to tear his gaze away in time when Will’s eyes snap to his once more. Caught, again. This was not his intent. Will’s consideration is palpable, then he wets his lips.

"I don't visit Venice often. Your apartments are beautiful."

"Thank you, Will. I admit to a nostalgic fondness for the city. I stay away for the peace of the villa, but never for too long."

"It seems your kind of place. Slowly being subsumed by the water, all this beauty crumbling into the depths."

"Life in death?" Hannibal hums.

"Death consuming life. It all just boils down to the same thing."

"Death wins?"

"No one wins. It's a circle."

"And what's to be done about that?"

Their eyes meet and snag. "Nothing, it just is. God and the Devil, heaven and hell, good and evil - it's all the same, two seasons chasing one another round and round."

"Well, we might as well enjoy it," Hannibal points out.

"Until we're eclipsed by one or the other?"

"Just so." Hannibal smiles at him softly, enthralled: he's getting a clear picture of just how the good in Will wanes and waxes. "Do you find it a comfort then, the cycle?"

“Well, change is inevitable, nothing is permanent.”

"Change isn't something to fear, Will."

"I know that, Conte. I'm changing all the time, for better or for worse. That's a cycle too, I think. We intersect and then we diversify, but we always circle back."

"It seems so thus far," Hannibal murmurs. "Eat, Will."

Dutifully, he turns his attention to his plate and the scattered appetisers, lashes long where they're downcast against his cheeks. Hannibal watches him shamelessly.

"What brought you to Padua, then?" Will asks patiently.

"The university, of course."

"You weren't scheduled for a guest lecture."

"No. It was personal interest."

"Me," Will surmises.

"Yes. I came to see you. I couldn't resist visiting your class."

"I like - warnings," Will whispers.

"I understand, Will. But we don't always have that luxury, do we?"

"No," Will whispers, "and you wanted to see what I would do without the luxury."

Hannibal takes a stuffed olive from the platter, pushing it closer to Will. "And I did."

"I disappointed you," Will says, picking idly at the edge of his plate, "I'm sorry."

“No, my dear boy. Don't feel that way."

He sees the doubt clouding Will's face; a darkness moving behind his eyes, that shame again, like he can taste rust. Hannibal waits for him to decide if he can do better.

"I wasn't afraid of seeing you cut someone open," he admits quietly.

"Why would you be, my darling?"

"I was jealous," Will puts in quickly.

Surprised, and intrigued, Hannibal sips his wine, studying the lovely face before him. "Of whom?"

Will's eyes shade away to his own glass, teeth sinking into his lower lip.

"Do I have to choose?" he mutters.

"You envied life, and you envied death."

"You held both in your hands."

"You could too, Will," he whispers.

"That's not what I envy."

"Isn't it?"

Will's curls tumble into his eyes as he drops his head.

"I saw... when you put your hands inside, I was on the table."

"That's a different thing entirely, isn't it?" Hannibal murmurs.

"Not entirely." Hannibal lets him sit with it for a moment. "I was afraid everyone would see," Will whispers, "what I want from you."

He allows himself to feel the dark thrill of those words.

"And what do you want from me?"

But Will just looks at his plate, cheeks crimson. When he raises his eyes again, they're shining.

"I want you to know what I look like, inside," he breathes, "but I'm afraid of what that means."

Hannibal smiles with his own eyes. "I think I can learn, without cracking your chest."

"You can try."

"If you let me."

Will swallows audibly as he shifts closer. "I'll let you," he promises.

Hannibal lifts his hand from the table and kisses the back softly. "Time for dinner."

Will's expression crumples, his fingers squeezing around Hannibal's, breaths catching. He's overwhelmed, and so lovely with it. Hannibal inhales the scent of it, bright and scorched like hot earth.

"Look at me," he says softly, "It's all right."

He waits until Will's head lifts, then cups his cheek gently. "It's all right," he repeats, savouring as Will closes his eyes, pressing into it.

"I'm going to feed you now," Hannibal tells him.

"So you keep saying."

Hannibal smiles and pats his cheek. "Touché."

He wants to stay, but he needs to feed him more. He tops up both wineglasses and makes his way to the kitchen, only allowing himself to smile once he's out of view. He can never quite predict Will, but he enjoys him so, foibles and all.

He removes the lidded clay dish from the oven with a heavy cloth, and serves the roasted vegetables and tender slices of liver with sauce onto two fine plates before carrying them into the other room.

Will stands to fill their water glasses from the waiting jug before he sits down with him to eat with a murmur of genuine thanks, the pair of them falling into silence for a moment while they open up napkins and settle. Unable to tear his eyes away, Hannibal cuts a few small bites of his own food without eating, watching instead as Will delicately takes his first mouthful, with attention to every morsel on his fork.

"Wonderful, Conte," he murmurs. "I've never had anything like it."

"I'm thrilled to offer you a new experience."

"I’m sure that’s true," Will says mildly.

Hannibal thinks he sees a glimmer of humour there, and he regards him warmly, glad he’s started to relax.

"Would you be interested in another new experience after we eat?" he asks mildly.

Will raises his eyebrows but doesn't look up from his dinner.

"Sounds ominous. You'll need to give me more than that before I agree."

"Have you ever been to a music salon?"

" _That_ sounds like there'll be people."

"Unfortunately yes. Also music," Hannibal comments smoothly.

"I'm okay with music," Will shrugs. "Not so much people."

"If you find it unpleasant, we need not stay." He adds, softly, "Though I will protect you from having to socialise too thoroughly."

"Will you?" His eyes flash up for a moment.

"I will."

"It won't be odd, taking your mentee to something like this-?"

"Not in the least. Rather to the contrary, I believe it is in your best interest to be seen in society."

"In what sense?"

"As you continue your medical research, you may wish to contract with a patron. Social events may help you find one."

Will considers that, and a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth displays his reluctance. Hannibal waits for him to process his thoughts.

"You're going to advertise me."

"That may be overstating matters, Will."

"Might it?"

"I could merely introduce you as a friend," Hannibal murmurs.

"Maybe I can be your shadow," Will suggests dryly.

"Not when you shine so bright."

He scoffs, just faintly. "You mean that."

"I do."

Will bites his lip, then turns back to his dinner.

Once more, Hannibal sips his wine and exercises patience.

"I'd prefer to be your shadow," Will says eventually.

"If you insist." That's fine. Truly. Hannibal can keep him to himself that way. He's nothing if not possessive.

"Have I offended you?" Will asks.

"No, Will. I truly wish you to be content."

"What else do you wish?" A question with barbs in it.

"Overall? Or are you enquiring about specifics? I'm sure that imagination of yours can answer the most obvious." It delights him, watching the flush creep up Will's cheeks, though he keeps eating his dinner, enthusiastically and without abandoning his manners.

"Yes. Well." He swallows and adds, softly, "Will I just be imagining?"

"That depends on you."

"Whether I continue to run away?"

"Whether you want me to catch you."

After a weighted pause, Will sets his fork down, his eyes going to Hannibal's hand: he's barely taken five bites of his own dinner. Hannibal watches him lick his lips, and feels the ripple in the air.

They both rise from the table suddenly, and though Will's body snaps into motion all at once, Hannibal had anticipated this. Like a dance, he steps into position. Will twists, Hannibal lunges, and Will barely gets outside of arms' reach before Hannibal skids and catches him around the middle, sending them both toppling toward the floor.

He lets out a slow, tearing groan against Hannibal's shoulder, thrashing against his hold only briefly, but when Hannibal pulls back to look at him, Will's hands snare in his hair, tugging him down into a fierce kiss. His mouth tastes like the sauce of his dinner and like tart, red wine. He's trembling, clutching, and breathless, so utterly delectable that Hannibal lets himself be kissed for longer than is strictly wise.

When he pulls back, Will is panting. He looks like he's been holding that back for a while. His hands slide into Hannibal's hair again immediately, stroking and smoothing, his glittering eyes clustered with stars in the narrow chunk of sunlight they've tumbled into.

He thinks Will might ask for more; wait until it's given. Instead he leans up again and smears their lips together, tongue curling behind Hannibal's teeth as a soft noise of need rings out between their mouths. As ever, Will seems to confound all his careful plans.

"I didn't know what I wanted," he says quietly, "until I saw you at the university."

"And now you do."

"Now I do."

"Tell me," Hannibal orders softly.

"I already told you what I want."

"Will," Hannibal murmurs. "I see you."

He can feel him tremor at the words, and he cups his cheek and the base of his skull, fingers stroking at silken curls. He's so precious.

"Kiss me again," Will asks softly.

Hannibal is happy to comply.

"Are you going to run again if I let you up?"

"Wait and see I guess."

He feels relaxed, but Hannibal would be hard pressed to predict him. It's still easy to let him up, but Will doesn't stand, just takes Hannibal's hand in his own, playing absently with his hands.

Hannibal enjoys the unexpected familiarity far more than expected, breath catching in his throat at the tenderness in Will's downturned lashes as he dips his chin to kiss his knuckles, first one hand, then the other.

Moved, Hannibal has to take his face in his hands and kiss him again, sighing as Will melts into it. The noise he makes is woundingly sweet, a little needle deep in Hannibal's gut. He will wear his surrender like a jewel, and his boy will wear the clothes that Hannibal gave him. At the thought, he turns his nose into his neck, inhaling deeply. Not a hint of the stables, the autopsy theatre, or the student body. Just Will, and the faint smell of sweet dried lavender from the tailor's sachets.

Soon, Hannibal hopes Will might permit him to wash him. It would be such a privilege to touch him; to erase every last molecule of scent other than him. He could fill all five senses with Will alone.

"Are you smelling me?" Will mutters now, sounding vaguely offended.

"And if I am?"

"Why?"

"It thrills me. I have an exceptionally sensitive nose."

"And what thrills you about smelling me?"

"It's another way to know you."

"How do you know me now?"

"Sight, sound, touch... taste."

"Taste," Will nearly sighs it.

"Just the tiniest bit," Hannibal murmurs. "Your lips are so sweet."

Will obliges him another taste. He does sigh, after.

"How have your paintings been coming along?"

"Very well, even in the absence of their subject."

"Perhaps I can see them soon."

"I would like to have you visit again, yes."

Will smiles. "I figured."

"There's still much to enjoy in Venice," Hannibal points out. "One of which is a tailor shop, I'm afraid."

“Hannibal…”

"Tomorrow. Music tonight." Hannibal states it calmly, hoping for agreement.

Will frowns. "I don't need-"

"Any of it? Perhaps not." Hannibal strokes his hair again. "Must I implore you to indulge me once more?" He sees from Will's slowly melting expression that he needn't.

"You're wicked," he tells Hannibal.

"Entirely." He kisses him, _just once more_. But once more is never enough.

Will is the first to pull back, reluctantly crawling free of Hannibal, helping him up. He seats himself back at the table and takes a long sip of wine, and it seems to steady him.

Hannibal removes their much neglected plates and goes to collect dessert, feeling steadier in turn when he rejoins Will, like their dance has settled back into steps they both know.

They resume their meal in comfortable quiet. If Will is dreading going out tonight, there is no further mention. Maybe he's more intrigued than he is afraid, like he is with Hannibal. Maybe he merely feels he ought to be afraid.

At the thought, he reaches out. Will's wrist is within reach, and when Hannibal covers his pulse, he feels it quicken. Their eyes meet.

"Everything is wonderful," Will tells Hannibal, as if seized by a sudden burst of politeness, "thank you."

"You're very welcome."

Will flashes him a smile again, and goes back to his dessert.

Later, after they've left the salon, Hannibal leads Will home along the darkly gleaming canals.

The lamps from nearby windows make the water catch gold, and Will does too, curls making waves like a reflection in a mirror. What a beauty he is.

"Did you enjoy the performances?" Hannibal asks.

"They were beautiful. Especially the harpist," Will murmurs.

"I thought so too. Music is a language of its own, one we all speak." He watches Will nod silently.

"It always looks like colours to me."

"Interesting," Hannibal murmurs. "What did you see tonight, when the harpist played? Could you describe it?"

“Silver drops of water falling." Hannibal pauses for a moment to close his eyes; recall the tune. "They fall into the softest duck egg blue," Will whispers, "making coral bursts when they strike the ground."

"That sounds lovely." He adds, thoughtfully, "For me, a piece of music often invokes a memory."

"Do you have one for that piece?"

"A new one," Hannibal says softly.

"Why, Hannibal, how sentimental of you," Will murmurs. Even so, he doesn't sound displeased. Hannibal could hardly prevent himself from expressing it, at any rate. In the pool of dark where the glow from their lantern ebbs, Will takes hold of Hannibal's arm as they walk. Such an indescribable pleasure, that.

The air is warm and pleasantly close, and at the canal where the water taxi waits to take them back to the other side of the river, Hannibal pauses in the swallowing black of a bridge to kiss Will fleetingly. He treasures the indrawn breath of air, after.

Then, he tugs him onto the boat and watches Will's shadowed profile as they glide down the canal. He’d like to show him more, however, he thinks Will has reached his limit of new things for the night. Back at the apartments, he seems dazed and glad for the quiet.

Hannibal pours him a nightcap and shows him the guest suite with its pale creams and golds, cocooning Will in a warm glow as soon as he steps inside. As dearly as Hannibal would love to watch him sleep in it, he holds himself at the door, and Will regards him over his shoulder for a moment, gaze a little challenging.

"I hope you have a pleasant night," Hannibal bids, and thinks he sees the set of Will’s shoulders loosen a little in relief: definitely at his limit for new experiences.

"Good night, Conte. Thank you for a pleasant evening." It's a dismissal, and Hannibal allows himself to comply with a soft murmur of goodnight. He closes the door, and inhales the scent of Will's drowsy quiet before he takes himself away.

Up early the next morning, he prepares an elegant breakfast to eat on the veranda, a flush of contentment warming him from within. The early morning sun kisses the canal outside, setting the walls and windows dancing with golden lines.

Will must be a light sleeper, because it's not long before he appears in his casuals, soft faced and tousled. He smiles tiredly at Hannibal, nerves of the night before seemingly abated.

"Good morning Will."

"Conte, hello."

"Would you like some coffee?"

"Please," Will says quickly. He hovers close, watching Hannibal move to start making it. "Can I do anything to help-?"

"Not at all, please sit and relax."

"You're sure?"

"Completely. Breakfast is ready as well."

Will takes the coffee he hands him, and Hannibal's too, to the table outside, and he stretches long and luxurious as a cat before he sits down. It's probably the least formal household he's ever been in, Hannibal reflects. Even his own parents'. Will seems to discard standing on ceremony like he does maintaining any other boundaries. It's refreshing. Though always a rigorous proponent of order and courtesy, having Will cast it aside in favour of intimacy is a luxury he can't help but sample. He suspects it's unique to this situation.

His eyes linger now as Will raises a slice of peach to his lips and eats it before he raises his coffee cup to his lips.

"You like to watch me," he says after a sip.

"I do." He tilts his head, not letting his attention falter. “This isn't the first time this has occurred to you."

"It isn't?" Will eats a blackberry this time.

"No, you're very aware."

"Not just of you."

"I know. You read everyone the instant you meet them, do you not?"

"Quicker than books, in any case."

Hannibal sips his coffee. "What did you read about me?"

Will doesn't answer right away, seemingly debating how honest to be.

"You operate... from within a confessional, like a priest," he whispers, finally. "You accept secrets and offer solutions, but you're obscured from view." His lip curls on the words, his cadence gently rising and falling like a river rippling by.

"Even from you?"

"It changes, from day to day," Will shrugs softly. "You always choose what to show."

Hannibal wets his lips. "It's better that way."

"Yes, you like your privacy, and you don't think anyone will understand." It's said noncommittally, and Hannibal doesn't push.

"With my predilections, it's the only sensible option."

"Yes," Will murmurs. "Will you tell me about how you became a doctor?"

"If you like."

"Obviously I would."

Hannibal nods and takes a bite of bread with fig preserve and goats’ cheese. "I learned on the job, I was a mortician's apprentice."

"And you liked it?"

"I certainly did."

"The dissection."

"Yes, to a degree."

"And what else?"

"It's a special kind of intimacy, caring for the dead. It makes you feel closer to god."

"Yet you're not a religious man."

"I'm not... a traditionally religious man."

"I suppose not." Will's voice is dry. Neither of them are.

"But I do believe in God," Hannibal continues mildly, "in my own way."

"I see."

"You don't?" Hannibal finds himself mildly surprised - Will is, above all, composed of guilt. For surviving, for needing help, for not continuing to suffer after his parents' death - usually it might result in a need for absolution, but he doesn't seem to want it. Not from the usual places.

"I believe in what I can see."

"And you don't believe God could be responsible for what you see?"

"No, I don't."

"Why is that, Will?"

"How could he assign such beauty to cruelty?" Will murmurs.

"I suppose it's all he knows. How little frame of reference he must have."

Will laughs. "Unlike us?"

"All we have is his example, I suppose."

"Oh, I think we develop our own."

"I suppose you're right." Insightful boy. He's older than his years. Hannibal feels a surge of affection, the feeling so foreign it blindsides him briefly. He gathers himself. "Speaking of beauty... are you prepared to visit my tailor today?"

"Is your tailor particularly beautiful?"

"No, but you are. And will be."

Will gives a sigh. "Will I be expected to wear these things in your paintings?"

"Perhaps. Unless I choose a mythological wardrobe."

"So a sheet," Will says archly, "cunning."

"It worked for the Greeks and Romans for hundreds of years," Hannibal says drily.

"Mm, I suppose so." He doesn't say more, but he doesn't argue.

Hannibal supposes that means the tailor isn't off the table. He doesn't really require any more permission than that.

After breakfast, Will goes to get washed and dressed and Hannibal sketches on the veranda, mind lingering on Will as always. The boy still seems agreeable today. He wonders how long that will hold.

He’s still smiling as the gondola whisks them to the tailor’s in the stark morning sunlight, taking in the bustling banks and markets; the low bridges and colourful boats that adorn the canals.

His good humour continues inside, and Will obediently stands and allows himself to be measured and inventoried; swatched and dressed and undressed and moulded. The first twitch of his patience threading is when the tailor gently turns his chin with his hand to get a better measurement of his neck, and though Hannibal sees it, he is sure the tailor does not.

Pleased with his patience, he wraps up the session and takes Will back out into the sun, to a nearby brasserie for espresso and well-earned quiet. They sit by the open balcony and look out over the harbour nearby, and Will’s tension seems to diminish again.

As ever, Hannibal watches him, both concerned and curious.

"It's beautiful here," Will murmurs.

"It is. Entirely different from my villa, but still its own loveliness."

"Tall order," Will mutters.

"What is, Will?"

"Following that act."

"I'm delighted you enjoy my home, Will."

Will's eyes cut to his. "I'm not interested in your home."

"No?"

"You know I'm not." His words are angled with disdain. Mercurial boy.

"Just my library," Hannibal says.

Will snorts. "Not that either."

"No, I suppose not," Hannibal murmurs. He reaches out and skims the curls from Will's eyes with gentle fingers. "Just me that has captured your interest, then."

Finally, he gets a flash of crystal eyes.

"Apparently so."

Hannibal has to smile.

"Would you like to come to the Basilica with me? A palate cleanser to spending the morning being measured."

"When does the carriage return us to Padua?" Will asks.

"A couple of hours' time."

"Then I'd love to see the Basilica, Conte."

"Perfect." He guides him up by his arm; back to the canal, another taxi. A leisurely stroll in the watery sunlight, and Will's angelic face surrounded by the splendour of the Basilica... Hannibal is quite content.

The Basilica is mirrored in the wet paving of the Piazza San Marco, left behind from early morning rain. The wind ripples the water, casting golden tendrils of light over its face, the palace alongside, and Will.

"You're stunning, Will," Hannibal tells him seriously. He's not expecting bashfulness; Will lights up with a flush.

"Please."

"Please what?"

"Don't - don't tease me," Will blushes further, but he looks troubled.

"I'm completely serious," Hannibal assures him.

"Usually you talk in tongues," Will explains, "it's a little bit of a change, is all."

"I was under the impression that you disapproved of that."

"Speaking in tongues?"

"When you're involved."

"You can imagine how valuable honesty is to me."

"Yes, dear boy."

That makes Will bite his lip. "Let's go inside."

"Very well."

Hannibal waves him in the ornately carved door. Inside, more gold. He spins slowly to take it all in. "Conte - it's exquisite."

Hannibal nods. "I've been many times. You haven't-?"

"No, I've been too busy."

"Well, you're here now."

"With you," Will replies softly.

"Yes, Will, with me." He feels rather smug about it, if he's to be honest with himself. So many milestones in Will's life, his to observe or participate in. He'll guard that jealously if he must. "Stop there," he says, as Will wanders directly into the path of a sunbeam, "let me look, please."

Will mutters something in his own language but lets Hannibal have his moment. A faint blush rises up his neck, creeping to his ears. Hannibal can practically smell it.

"Perfect," he tells him softly. He'll remember this.

Finally, Will moves again, with a flash of a smile. Hannibal lets him go this time, just keeping him in his peripheral vision. Will moves to light two candles at the altar. For his parents, Hannibal assumes. He moves alongside him; accepts a splint to light his own. Always three, for him. He watches them reflect in Will's eyes, but the boy doesn't ask, merely withdraws to sit on the front pew, eyes travelling all around.

Hannibal makes his own path to the small capello and the statues within. It's quiet and calm, the blank eyes of the saints looking down on him. He enjoys the vastness he feels within him at the sight. No judgement or encouragement, merely observation, unblinking and bottomless. He's content to be observed. He only hopes he might provide them sufficient entertainment.

Eventually, they stroll to the doors by mutual unspoken agreement. As they climb back onto the gondola, Hannibal offers his hand to Will in assistance, and prickles at the way Will laces their fingers as he hops down. It's a conscious gesture, and not entirely innocent. Hannibal nearly resents having to let go. Soon, perhaps he won't. It's a long carriage ride back to Padua, and he'll accompany Will this time.

Their bags are packed and ready but they take the time to go about eating a light luncheon. Will seems quiet; contemplative. Hannibal keeps his own conversation minimal. Eventually Will looks up, eyes clearer.

"Forgive me, Conte, but may I ask about making some progress on my medical experience?"

"Of course, Will."

"I know I left the lecture at the university," Will says softly, "but I really do want more insight into autopsy procedure."

"Of course," Hannibal murmurs. "And you ought to have it." He thinks he knows what Will is angling at, whether he knows it or not. He, of course, has no objections, but he's also not averse to some more wheedling. "I can have a word with the Professore, perhaps another lecture-"

Will sighs. "Anything would be appreciated," he murmurs. "I'm suitably ashamed of myself."

"There's no need to be ashamed of feeling fear. It's an important instinct."

"For survival."

"Just so." He inspects the boy for a moment. "Your survival drive is strong."

"Despite my best efforts," Will shrugs.

Hannibal only hums. He handles Will back onto the bank at the apartment, and the footman is there waiting with the carriage. They go inside to retrieve their bags, and Will glances around one final time.

"We can come back, if you like," Hannibal offers.

Will nods thoughtfully. "Maybe." It's good enough for Hannibal. For now.

On the way back to Padua, he contents himself sketching Will, who's buried in his book. It's not the best quality, but he's merely amusing himself. After a while, Will glances up at him.

"Enjoying yourself?"

"Very much so."

"What else might you enjoy?"

"You sound like you have some ideas."

"I might, after feeling you watching me for so long."

"Tell me."

"I think you want my attention, after giving me so much of yours."

"I would certainly not dislike it."

Will reaches out and tugs the sketchbook from his hands. He sets it aside carefully, leaning across the narrow carriage to close the space between them with a kiss. Hannibal allows his eyes to close with his pleasure. He grips Will's flanks delicately, breath catching in surprise when Will kneels over his lap.

His eyes spark, face touched with something that's not quite a smile. He kisses him again, and Hannibal holds on, lets the boy take control of the encounter. He seems fluid and at ease in the confined space, like the outside world can't get to them here. Fascinating.

He's incredible. Young muscles shifting under Hannibal's avid hands. He tips his head and kisses Hannibal's jaw, his own hand skating down his chest. Hannibal tilts his head to the side to allow him free rein. The path of Will's tongue is electric and keen, oh so delicate. He's careful but forceful when he nips at the delicate skin. The flash of pain is delightful.

Hannibal curls his hand into his hair. His silky curls slide through his fingers, his mouth a hot smear on Hannibal's skin. He mouths his way up to Hannibal's ear.

"Would you like to touch me, Conte?"

"More than nearly anything, Will."

"What's stopping you?"

"Waiting for permission."

"I let you do everything else."

"I know."

"You thought this would be different."

"Thought what would be different?"

"You thought I might say 'no'." He curls his lips around the word.

"I had entertained the thought that you didn't necessarily - have the same desires."

That seems to stun Will for a moment. Hannibal waits, thumbs circling.

"Touch me how you want to," Will whispers.

Hannibal nods, leaning in to scent under Will's chin. When Will tilts his head up, his hair tickles Hannibal's temples. Hannibal mouths down his throat as his hand finds the ties of his linen shirt. He slides his hands underneath smoothly, presses a palm over where his heart beats. With the other, he traces the curve of his chest; the lines and angles of his ribs.

He can feel Will shaking lightly. It's delectable to feel him judder when his thumb skims over the peak of his nipple, heartbeat quickening under Hannibal's palm. He closes his eyes and wonders how it might feel without the wall of his chest to separate them. Will has as much as admitted that he wonders too. It makes Hannibal ache for him even more.

He finds the sensitive nipple again. Will gives him the most beautiful little sound, arching into the touch, and Hannibal sucks gently at the skin of his neck, tasting salt and soap and youth. The way his limber young spine bows and pushes him closer.

"More," he whispers.

Encouraged, Hannibal slides his mouth down to take hold of his collarbone and set his teeth around it. Will slides a hand into his hair and sighs.

"Everything you do feels like a master's brush stroke," he says softly.

"Is that so?"

"Oh, yes. It's maddening, Hannibal."

"Should I apologise?"

"Would you?"

"If you thought I should."

Will laughs softly into his hair. "Perhaps I do."

"I apologize for teasing you with my...masterful brush strokes," Hannibal says promptly.

"Show me how sorry you are, Conte."

Hannibal replies by pulling him even closer. He lifts his shirt up to lick a line up the centre of his chest. As Will's balance shifts, it rocks their hips together. It stutters a little noise out of Will. Hannibal drinks that in even as he maps the tastes and textures of Will's chest. He slides a hand down to cup Will through his trousers, just light, teasing pressure, lets Will make the choice to rock up into his palm. His arms fold around Hannibal, caging him in.

Hannibal wouldn't think of resisting. He wants every trap Will's body has on offer. Craves them, in fact. Wants to rend himself bloody trying to escape it. It's a singular craving, something he thinks has come from Will. He grips him tighter at the thought and bites.

Will rocks up hard into his hand. When Hannibal grips him more firmly he can feel the weight of him; his heat. He's desperate to see him bare; to paint him like this. He half wants to persuade him to come home with him. He thinks it would be easy.

He bites him again; handles him closer as he squeezes him through the fabric. "Hannibal," Will gasps, then a quieter "Conte -"

"Tell me."

"It's too much, I feel like I'm going to -"

"Do you want me to stop?"

A pause, then a tiny nod. Hannibal retracts his hands, biting his lip at the little stutter of Will's breath. He'd ask if he'd upset him, but Will pushes his face into his neck, kissing the skin there and clutching him close.

Their mouths find their way back together after a while. Will is still bridging their bodies, breaths hitched, the space between them close and hot. He seems to need some contact, but not so much. His hands move over Hannibal's skin, skimming inside his shirt collar. Each touch feels like its own caress.

Will has a hungry, vacant look, pupils blown, lashes dark. A beam of white daylight that has slipped in between the window blinds lights up the blue of his irises.

"Hannibal," he whispers.

Hannibal just stares for a moment, enraptured.

"Time to tell me what else you want," Will nudges.

He wants Will on his knees. "Are you sure you want to do what I want?"

"Tell me."

The words stall in his throat, but Will is incredibly intuitive, because he steps back off Hannibal's lap; sinks down in the narrow footwell of the carriage, watching Hannibal closely. "Yes," he purrs. He strokes Will's hair, watching his eyelids flicker at the touch.

"Yes," Will echoes. He turns his lips against Hannibal's palm, kissing the heel before he sucks his thumb loosely into his mouth. Hannibal feels his blood rush south.

The impulse to grip at Will's lower jaw as he sucks is too much to resist. Will allows it gracefully. He's experimental, inexperienced, but almost coy with it. No less than Hannibal expects. He's entirely enamoured.

He's learning, working his tongue over Hannibal's skin. He sucks his thumb and then pulls off with pink lips, mouth half open as he reaches for Hannibal's belt. Hannibal leans back to help him. Will's hands are careful and sure, gaze steady. His eyes only dip when he leans down for his first taste. Hannibal is only just thickening up, but Will's hot mouth enveloping his cock triggers a spear of need in his gut that shocks him. He breathes through it, letting Will settle. With a thought for the rumbling carriage, he drops his hands to cup Will's jaw, holding him steady and arching to meet him.

Will lets his lips and tongue search over the hot skin. Little sounds escape him, low and needy, hands gripping at the fabric of Hannibal's shirt. He sounds divine, looks even more so. And he's here, in the place Hannibal carved out for him, working his cock slow and wet with his mouth. Like it's something he's done a thousand times, and never, all at once.

He meets Hannibal's gaze, challenging and deferential. Hannibal strokes his jaw with his thumbs. Watches his lips drag against his skin as he lets his tongue flick out against the underside. "Lovely," he murmurs. Gets a little huff of laughter for his trouble. "You are," he repeats. "Absolutely divine, doing whatever you can to please me. You enthrall me, Will."

A flash of blue. A hum. He's pleased. He strokes under Will's jaw again, guiding him closer. The pink lips slide obscenely up his shaft as he takes him in.

He's careful as he picks up his pace, a round of long sucks and swallows before he pulls back to breathe; to lap at the head of Hannibal's cock. He very much looks like he's struggling to maintain concentration, panting softly, the heel of his palm grinding against his hardness. Taking pity, Hannibal angles his calf between his thighs, pleasure flaring when Will bridges into the contact with a gasp. His hips circle wantonly, and while Hannibal might have preferred to touch, this still stirs him. He still looks so intensely focused on Hannibal.

His mouth slides as easily as before. He's so eager, moaning softly now, so present Hannibal can feel it. He still lets Hannibal guide him by the jaw.

"You're doing beautifully."

Will makes a soft noise in response. He sounds annoyed and assured at once, somehow. Typical for this boy, Hannibal thinks. Like the way he's picking up speed despite little hiccupping breaths that speak of choking, eyes tearing. It's so lovely. Hannibal cherishes every noise; every sensitive flicker of his throat around his cock.

He lets himself enjoy them until he feels himself grow close. He considers the feeling, almost removed from it, and gently pushes Will back by his jaw. Will fights it. It's moving, snaring a groan out of Hannibal, but he gets his other hand into his hair and tugs him back to wrap his other hand around his wet cock instead. He holds tight while he pumps himself to completion.

Will's pink lips are all he can focus on; his urgent gaze. He tries to move him back to spend on the floor. But Will's fingers tighten; he won't be moved again. "Don't you dare," he breathes. "Give it me, I want to taste you."

Hannibal groans softly. It's so easy to squeeze and stroke; to let himself buck faster until the molten pressure between his hips blooms like a mushroom cloud. His release paints over those pink lips. Will watches every second, lashes flickering at the hot stripe of white that spatters the bridge of his nose. He's panting when Hannibal finishes, looking utterly ruined.

"How do I look now?"

"Marked," Hannibal whispers.

"That's how I feel." Hannibal reaches out to smear, wipe, but Will takes hold of his hand to clean the mess delicately off his fingers with his tongue. "More," he orders softly.

Hannibal does as he's bid, presenting his fingers to Will for cleaning with each swipe. He licks up every drop. "Beautiful boy," Hannibal breathes.

His pleasure shows in his face; his pink cheeks. In the slow arch of his hips, too. Hannibal presses his leg closer. Will is still softly suckling at his fingers, moan stifled around them when he rocks.

"Take them nice and deep, lovely boy."

Feeling the softness of his insides around his fingers is maddeningly good, enough to send another little twinge of desire through Hannibal as Will bucks and rubs against his boot leather. His moan stops up against Hannibal's palm.

"Do you need more, Will?"

He almost hopes he says no, transfixed by his desperate frottage. When he shifts his foot again, Will indistinctly gasps his answer, knuckles still white in Hannibal's shirt as he moves with more urgency, a violent blush rising in his ears and across the bridge of his nose.

Hannibal stares. There's a curl of scent in the air like an extinguished match, but earthier. Will is nearly there. His anguished moan as he comes presses his tongue against Hannibal's fingers. He chokes slightly; shudders on another visible wave. Hannibal's adoration tastes cloying and sweet in the back of his mouth as he gives Will a few more pushes of his fingers before pulling them away.

Will leans forward, slowly, to pant against Hannibal's knee. His curls yield from their lazy twists and tumbles as Hannibal combs them with his fingers.

"Good boy," Hannibal whispers.

Will makes a soft, weak noise. He allows Hannibal to pull him back to the bench. And, when he's tidied them both up a bit, to pull him into his side, arm curled around his shoulders.

"What a thrilling surprise you are."

"I doubt much surprises you, Conte," Will murmurs.

"You seem to always have the ability."

"I think that pleases you."

It does, undoubtedly. "I'm certainly feeling something in that vein."

He hears Will's little laugh. It's such a rare sound, it teases at the corners of his own humour, and they both dissolve a little. Finally Will sits back up to look at him. His cheeks still lit with a blush, he's like nothing Hannibal has ever beheld. Ganymede couldn't hold a candle to him. He regards Hannibal solemnly.

Hannibal waits for him to gather his thoughts. "I'd like to see you again soon," he murmurs.

"Then you shall." It's as simple as that.

Will bites his lip. He's still blushing, looking solicitous. "I never knew things could be like this," he says slowly.

"Like this?"

"I know myself, when I'm with you. Or at least I'm beginning to." At Hannibal's silence, he reaches out and touches at the exposed V of his chest where his shirt gapes, fingertips scratching gently at silvering hair. "And I think I know you, too."

Hannibal ought to be worried, if he does. But this is Will. Will is full of surprises. And Hannibal seldom worries about anything.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things get altogether stickier in this chapter. Enjoy the gratuitous porn and our struggle to refer to ancient lube as anything other than 'a bottle of oil'. 
> 
> Content warnings: cadavers, dissection, autopsy flirting, sex.

It feels strange, to Will, to be dropped off at his own small boardinghouse after such a whirlwind trip. The sun has long since set, the sky just kissed with the last vestiges of red. He's sticky, and sweaty, and overwhelmed. Still burned with the shame of what he did - what _they_ did, but warmed by the pleasure of it too.

It's everything he's always believed to be wrong. The only thing he's wanted to do since the Conte flicked those maroon eyes over him at the ball, weighing him like a pound of flesh. He was not found wanting. But now he wants, and fears in equal measure. That he'll never be the same. That he will be.

Unexpectedly, he feels that thick, pervasive sting of overwhelm again. He wants, badly, entirely. It creeps over him like a fever. As soon as he's back in his room, he pulls out some of the supplies Hannibal bought him, and writes a note to be sent at first light.

_When can I see you again?_

_Yours,_

_W_

He shivers just to read it over. It seems insolent in its familiarity, but he can't adhere to the constraints of their social relationship in light of... everything. He's not sure what their social relationship is anymore. All he knows is he can still smell and taste Hannibal, and feel the evidence of what he did to Will - with Will - in the slight stiffness of a strand of hair, and the ache in his jaw.

He ought to order up hot water and wash it away. Even so, he's reluctant. It's not as if he could forget. But washing away tangible evidence... No, he doesn't want to.

Heavy with mingled emotions, he takes off his clothes, the clothes Hannibal had made for him, and stands in front of the looking glass in the half dark, trying to discern changes in his face. It's disappointing to see none. Fingertips trailing his chest where a surgeon might cut into it to gain access to his ribs, he swallows it down and gets changed for bed.

*

Concentration in his classes the next day proves difficult. He sent his letter first thing, and now he's plagued with longing and distraction. He's careful to take perfect notes in each of his lectures, still smarting from the shame of missing the last dissection.

After classes he neglects his usual trip to the library for some strange fear that Alana will _know_ , instead diverting back to his rooms. His landlady has a meal waiting for him, and a letter.

He scarcely acknowledges the former, tearing into the letter in the privacy of his room, folding it out onto his table and just breathing for a moment over the sight that greets him - a sketch folded into the note, depicting Will with wild hair and an obvious flush even in black and white. He shivers, setting it reverently aside to read Hannibal's words. Even his handwriting does things to Will.

It's rather a longer note than Will's own, starting with a blush inducing endearment.

_Beloved,_

_You are welcome at the villa whenever your schedule permits._

_In truth, I have done little else since my return but prepare for your next visit._

_And I have thought of nothing but you, in your entirety._

Will bites his lip, feeling his blood heat. It goes on at some length, somehow both intimate and cordial. Nothing is overly suggestive, not even the sketch. But Will knows.

The bottom line is what catches his attention, a summons in a few days time. Finally, an answer. He feels it burn across his skin. He can hardly wait.

He packs more carefully this time; the new suit of clothes, freshly laundered, he'll wear. There'll be more when he next goes. Hannibal had ordered several more at the tailors shop in Venice. It's a singular feeling, knowing Hannibal has clothed his body.

 

When he heads out from his lessons at the end of that day, the carriage waits in the courtyard, Hannibal's insignia emblazoned in the sides. He picks up the bag that he's packed and the stack of books he needs to return to Hannibal's library, and climbs inside. He's nearly vibrating with excitement. It will be a long ride out to the villa, alone, especially after the distractions of the last one. He may never be able to ride innocently in a carriage again.

The thought makes him laugh slightly to himself. Truly, he is the Conte's creature now. The thought doesn't trouble him as much as it ought. No one else deserves to claim him.

 

Hannibal meets him at the door, but his hair is ruffled and his arms burdened with bound volumes as if he'd seen him from the library windows. He sets the books aside on a table and comes immediately to greet Will with a kiss to the cheek.

"I was picking texts about the circulatory system for you," Hannibal murmurs. "I've acquired a cadaver."

Will feels a low tide of electricity go through him, somewhere between gratitude and horror and delight. "From where?"

Hannibal just raises a brow. "The usual sources."

Almost all the cadavers at the university are donated from the hospital. It stands to reason Hannibal has a similar arrangement, if he studies them for painting. Will wonders what he does with them afterwards. He feels the strange weight then, of knowing they share the house with a corpse.

Hannibal shows no sign of disturbance, of course. "I've taken the liberty to prepare one of the cellar rooms for our use."

"Very good, Conte. Thank you."

"Are you ready?"

Will's breath stops up again. "Now?"

"We still have several hours before dinner. Entirely your decision."

His mouth feels dry. All at once, he nods, willing his voice to come back. "Very well. Now."

Hannibal smiles. "Follow me." They leave the dimly lit library, winding down through the villa to the cool cellars, the scent of damp rising up to meet them at the top of the stairs. Will wrings his hands slowly as they walk.

"Nervous?" Hannibal stops with him at the top of the stairs.

"Yes," Will admits.

"Don't be. You have nothing to fear from the dead, only knowledge to attain." Hannibal holds his hand out to him delicately. Will takes it, and Hannibal's face, while not overtly smiling, still radiates approval.

Carefully, they descend the stone steps. In the lamplit cellar, the cadaver waits on a varnished marble-topped table, the head mercifully removed. Hannibal sees him looking. "When you are ready to study the brain, I will acquire another."

"Right." Will's hands tingle. He follows Hannibal around the table and mirrors him as he washes his hands and forearms in a bowl of water on another worktop. An array of implements sit on a clean cloth, he notes.

"Show me what your professor has demonstrated so far."

"Mostly dissection of the muscle and tendons, showing the bone." Will shows the locations of the cuts.

"And you've witnessed a full post mortem?"

Will nods. "Yes, we observed one at the beginning of the year."

"And you know the theory behind performing one."

"I've done all the readings. Including your own manuscript," Will says dryly.

"Good. Let's start with the dissection, and we can progress as you become more comfortable. Would you prefer to observe and then copy, or follow instruction?"

"Follow instruction," Will says, trying not to blush.

"Very good. Please, pick up a scalpel, we will begin whenever you're ready."

Will nods, happy that his hands are steady when he reaches for a blade. Hannibal watches him approvingly when he makes the first cut, murmuring clinical instruction throughout the process. He doesn't step in until it's time to crack the rib cage and Will falters.

His arms shadow Will's, chest against his back as he assists with the spreading mechanism. The sound of crunching bone makes Will feel faintly nauseous.

"That was good," Hannibal murmurs.

That soon pushes the nausea away. Will concentrates, peering into the open chest cavity, struck by the complexity of it all, and the reductionist voice inside him that said: all just meat now.

"Let's remove the internal organs in order, shall we?"

"All right," Will nods, "tell me where to start."

Hannibal stays close to murmur instructions, asking if he sees irregularities. For the most part, Will is occupied just with the minute details of the removals; the feel of the flesh under his hands. At some point, he becomes aware that Hannibal's cheek is against his hair as he leans to point out signs of trauma- scarring on the liver, pale kidneys. Will shivers minutely, but holds steady. The symptoms Hannibal points out are starting to paint a picture.

"Are you starting to construct a diagnosis?" Hannibal murmurs.

"I think I might be."

"Good, very good."

"Signs of cardiac arrest," Will murmurs, "discoloration around the veins and fingertips, and clotting around the heart- the body is young though, which suggests the heart attack was triggered by something else, probably suffocation."

Hannibal hums. "Do you see anything else?"

Will peers, brows furrowing in concentration. "Bruising," he points it out.

Hannibal nods. "Very good."

"Was this man..." Will can't even say it. He looks over his shoulder at Hannibal, who holds his gaze solemnly.

"Was he what, Will?"

Will looks down at the table and his own hands. "Murdered," he mumbles.

"The whole purpose of the autopsy is to determine just that."

"Yes, but. I've never actually seen... mostly they're old, or sick."

"And to learn, you must see a broad spectrum of conditions. We are doing him a service, giving an answer to the questions he would have asked."

Will nods, feeling chastened. Hannibal touches under his chin gently.

"I know it can be uncomfortable, to see what others have seen. You are doing wonderfully."

It makes his chest fill with buoyant heat, those words, that calm tone. That touch. He looks back at the corpse to kill it, dirtied by the knowledge of what Hannibal's attention does to him regardless of the situation. "Is that...have we finished, then?"

"There is much learning still to be had from this body," Hannibal murmurs. "Perhaps tomorrow. We've worked for hours already." He touches Will's shoulders delicately. "You did well."

Will breathes out, letting his shoulders drop. "I'd like to clean up now, yes."

"All right."

Hannibal directs Will to the water again while he pulls a sheet over the cadaver. It's cool now, and Will's muscles feel tight with suppressed shivers. He washes himself down thoroughly, almost panicked in his movements.

Hannibal appears behind him once more.

"Will. Tell me what you're feeling."

"I'm cold," Will says tightly.

"We'll go back upstairs and get you warm." He says it like he knows it's half-truth.

Will wipes his hands off carefully, turning to him. He wants suddenly to exercise his right to ask for contact. But not here. He can't be in this room any longer. He watches Hannibal rinse his hands in turn and throw the bloodied water down a nearby drain. Watching the rust-tinged water run into the featureless black holds him for a minute, mind following its fall, until Hannibal steers him toward the stairs.

He realizes he's gone deep into his mind somewhere. Hannibal makes no demands to pull him back from it, instead walking Will to the quarters he had first spent the night in here, where a fire is roaring in the grate. Sitting down where he's prompted, Will stares into the fire. He feels more than sees Hannibal join him. He doesn't touch him, not yet.

"Will, I'd like you to tell me what's going on."

"It will sound unhinged, Conte."

"All the more reason to tell me, so I can alleviate you of the concern."

"I feel like I strangled him," Will breathes. "I can see it all in my head, so clearly." He can't look at Hannibal for a minute. When he does, the attention there is almost disconcerting.

"Your imagination troubles you," he murmurs.

"It's... it feels more like a memory than a fiction."

"How does it make you feel?"

"Afraid," Will whispers, "and enthralled."

"What will help?" Hannibal murmurs.

Wetting his lips, Will tears his gaze away from the flames. "Just help me come back from it. I need something to hold onto."

"Of course." And Hannibal wraps an arm around his shoulders where they sit. It's indescribably soothing. Will shudders, thoughts encompassed in their entirety by the scent and feel of him.

"Thank you."

"Are you warmer now?" Hannibal murmurs. "I can call for tea."

"I just want to stay here," Will confesses quietly.

Hannibal squeezes his shoulder. "As long as you need."

"I'm worried that I'm not cut out for this, sometimes," Will admits.

"That couldn't be farther from the truth."

"But I was- overcome. It was confusing, seeing it. At school it's different, it's just meat. That felt like- seeing it firsthand."

"Your hand was on the knife," Hannibal points out.

"I don't mean the autopsy."

"You mean the death." He nods slowly. "Then you were reacting to the violence, not your own act."

"Yes. I... I saw it all. Or it seemed that way."

"Perhaps. But you were not there when this man died, Will, and these things you see, you must learn to let them go away again."

Staring into the fire again, Will swallows the uncertain feeling that he can't. "Let's... let's talk about something else, then."

"Anything you like."

Will shivers as a hand strokes through his hair. Hannibal's touch is as welcome a redirect as anything. "What did you do this week?"

Hannibal hums, fingers moving slowly. "Walked in my gardens. Went deer hunting. Read in my library."

"Sounds nice," Will murmurs.

"I believe this evening is nicer."

That unexpected warmth again. Will turns his face into Hannibal's shoulder and sighs. The tension is leeching away now, leaving him merely tired.

"As a doctor," Hannibal murmurs, "I believe you need a good dinner and an early night."

The thought of sleep repels him. Moreover: the thought of dreams. Hannibal must feel him tense.

"You're afraid of sleeping."

"We've discussed my dreams before."

"I remember." Will feels a slight squeeze then, and fancies it protective. "Well, then I'll try to provide different subject matter."

Will looks up at that, curious. Hannibal captures his chin between thumb and pointer finger. Will needs no further indicator of the subject matter in question. "Please," he blurts. He's embarrassed by himself, but Hannibal only gives him a patient, fond smile.

"Have you been thinking about our last meeting, darling boy?"

Will nods. "Yes, Conte."

"And what are your thoughts?"

"I want you to teach me things I don't know," Will replies. He adds, so Hannibal can't deliberately misunderstand him, "In all things."

"Ah," Hannibal says softly. He looks immeasurably satisfied by that outcome.

"Will you kiss me now?" Will asks.

Hannibal smiles, and dips to bring their mouths together. It's both slower and more deliberate than Will expects. More demanding too, with his hands molding Will into a more comfortable resting position, lips gently seeking. Will lets himself be guided. The heat is like nothing he's known, flowing down his throat like sweet wine, flooding the pit of his stomach.

His hands splay flat against Hannibal's chest. This has a keenness to it he can't place. He thinks it's Hannibal's own clear pleasure in the circumstance. Will can taste it in his breath like the lingering sweetness of apples and wine.

His hands find Will's hips, tug him closer. Will squirms when he's half-lifted into his lap, a quiet gasp escaping him. Hannibal lets him resettle himself. When Will catches his eyes, red lit by the fire, he's struck by them. They're full of a possessiveness that's less fierce than - bottomless. Will is simultaneously frightened and humbled by it. He touches Hannibal's jaw with hesitant fingers.

He feels carved from marble, except for the heat of his skin. Will leans in to kiss his mouth, first just the corners, and then his lower and upper lip in turn. Hannibal holds carefully still for him, eyes sliding closed.

Will kisses those next, lashes tickling his lips. Then his forehead; temples and cheeks; between his eyes. Hannibal's hands frame his ribs, touch careful.

"Precious thing," he murmurs.

"You're so beautiful," Will blurts. "I can't get you out of my head."

He can see even behind the careful stillness of his face that the words move Hannibal. "A dark and lovely place to be. I hope to reside there until such a time as you see fit to evict me."

Will lets out a slow breath. "Please."

"Tell me, Will. Whatever it is in my power to give you."

Will isn't sure what to ask for. He has the dizzying notion that it could be anything, in this moment. He feels like a child when it comes to him, a need so bright it makes him flinch to behold it. "Will you stay here with me tonight?"

"If you'd like; or we may retire to my suite."

"Whichever."

"I would like to feed you first," he murmurs. Will feels somewhat reluctant, if only due to his desire to hide from Chiyoh's judgmental gaze. Hannibal studies him for a moment. "I can bring dinner up here, if you like."

Will nods.

"My suite has a table that will suit, if you'd like?"

Will needs Hannibal to stop asking him if he likes things. "All right."

Hannibal sets him carefully on his feet. Will trails him to his room, feeling frustratingly like a child as Hannibal leaves him to go and attend to the matter of dinner. He does take the opportunity to be shockingly nosy. He's astounded by everything in the place- as ornate and well balanced as every other room in the house but with a distinctly private energy. Opulent in the way someone can be only in their den, their sanctuary. Will feels the reverberations of Hannibal everywhere, from the well-outfitted desk under the window to the neat stack of books by the bed. In the wardrobe full of lush doublets and fine linen.

He sighs, moving to the bedside, retrieving a book and sitting down to examine it. He can feel a smile on his face, small but genuine. It's a book of folk tales- not exactly what he had in mind when he picked it up. Unexpectedly charming. He cracks the pages about quarter of the way through and reads, the easiness soothing his more fractious thoughts for now.

Hannibal smiles when he's still at it when he reappears. "Glad to see you've made yourself comfortable," he says, completely serious.

"Not entirely," Will stifles a smile.

"Let's see if we can't change that. Come and eat."

"Gladly." The tray is emitting delicious scents. Hannibal sets out crockery, lighting a candelabra on the table to illuminate them a little. He moves like it's a dance, even though it would be considered servants' work by almost anyone else. "You cook a lot," Will observes, remembering Venice.

"I enjoy it more than most other things in life," Hannibal says.

His hands, steady and finely put together, draw Will's attention for a while before he can answer.

"Another reason you live so far out here, alone?"

Hannibal visibly debates his response, handing Will a napkin before pulling his chair out for him. "Notoriety in moderation can be beneficial, but I've found it to be a hindrance too. I like my privacy, it works best for everyone that way."

"Is that part of why you stopped teaching as well?"

"Yes, and because I was starting to feel I had reached the end of my usefulness to others. I am not interested in treading the same ground flat. I require new mental territories."

So, private research and painting. It makes sense, really it does. It also stands to reason, at least to Will, that he is one of those new territories. If it were common for the Conte to keep a ... companion close to hand, his attendant wouldn't watch him with such confusion. Will is simultaneously delighted and intimidated at the thought.

Hannibal catches him smiling at nothing and raises a brow. "New territories for both of us," Will supplies.

Hannibal smiles faintly at that.

They eat in relative quiet for a minute. Will didn't realize how hungry he was. He feels like he ought not to be, but he's famished. He's aware of Hannibal watching him intently, after a while. He looks up.

"I'm sorry, I'm not being very polite."

"Your dinner doesn't come with a conversation tax, Will."

"It's very good," Will says.

"I'm glad you like it." He adds, "and it's good to see your color improving." Will tries to smile, but the words send his mind rattling back to the cellar, where the headless man lies. Hannibal must see it in his face. He pours wine into a cup and hands it to him. "Drink this."

"Anesthetic, Doctor?"

"Yes. Also it is a lovely wine and it goes well with dinner."

"You like things to complement one another, don't you?"

"Should I not? Balance is important."

"Sometimes so is contrast," Will shrugs.

"Then, yes, it's an anesthetic."

Will takes a purposeful sip. He can't deny it is good, spicy and strong.

 He doesn't even mind that Hannibal is clearly trying to get him to relax. It feels good, knowing he cares. Will tries not to think too much about vested interests. It's not fair.

He focuses on his dinner for a minute, chewing intently. His brow creases as he tries to identify what it is he's eating, now. Hannibal had mentioned deer hunting, but this doesn't taste like any venison he's ever had. "What is this dish?" he asks.

Hannibal glances up from his own plate. "It's veal, with a white wine and butter sauce. The citrus notes of the wine bring out the sweetness of the meat."

Will nods thoughtfully, cutting another bite and taking a sip from his cup. They certainly do complement one another. He takes another sip and another bite. And another. And another. Hannibal comes to collect his plate when they're finished, depositing them on the tray and outside of his quarters quickly before he comes back to Will.

"Are you tired now, Will?"

"Relaxed," Will says after a moment. He could be tired, if he let himself.

"An equally desirable outcome. An inability to relax is often the efforts of holding back an unpleasant line of thought. Have you locked yours away, or has it simply been and gone?"

"Gone for now," Will murmurs.

Hannibal's hands bounce lightly on his shoulders. "Come, I think you'll see the benefits of taking a bath before bed."

Will can see the benefits quite clearly, yes. He stands, fidgeting a bit and not bothering to ask where Hannibal will be in this instance. Hannibal's reluctance to leave his side has already been telegraphed.

The bath has been brought in front of the fire in an adjoining room- one Will isn't sure isn't specifically for this purpose. When he peers into the tub, the water is marbled with fragrant oil. Hannibal moves from dresser to wardrobe, selecting a block of sweet-smelling soap, a length of fine linen, a robe. Will watches him, and then starts to undress with a mental sigh. That gains him the lion's share of Hannibal's attention. He'd be embarrassed if he weren't so keenly flattered by it. As it is, it slows his fingers.

Hannibal tilts his head, attention clearly caught, mouth tilted in a bare smile. Will flushes.

"Would you like some privacy?"

"Not as much as I want company."

He watches Hannibal straighten where he stands. His expression is nothing short of reverent.

"I'll leave you to get settled, I should like another drink," he murmurs.

"May I have another as well?" Will asks.

"You may."

He watches Hannibal go before he sheds the rest and gets tentatively into the bath. It's milky with something- maybe salts- and Will is pleasantly overfaced with heat and scent. He breathes in a chest full of steam before sliding under the surface to wet his hair. When he resurfaces, Hannibal is waiting, eyes moving over him with an unnamed approval. He holds out the wine. Will accepts it carefully, droplets pattering off his arm.

"Thank you." He takes a sip, leaning to set it carefully on the bath's edge before he settles down again, letting the water slop against his lower lip. He closes his eyes. "What did you add to the water? It smells very good."

"A blend of chamomile, bergamot, and milk."

"You're... steeping me?" Will laughs.

"If you like." Hannibal gives him that bare crinkling of his eyes again. "Chamomile and bergamot are both known for their calming properties."

"And the milk?"

"It is a skin softening agent, and I thought you would appreciate some modesty."

"How much do you think I need at this point?" Will replies, noting with satisfaction Hannibal's quickly-masked surprise. It's good to be the one causing it for a change. He thinks Hannibal sees his smirk, too.

"That is entirely up to you, Will."

"Is it?"

"Completely and entirely."

"I regret my lack of education in certain matters," Will murmurs.

"You needn't."

Will studies him as he reaches for the block of soap. That, too, smells incredible. Not at all what he's used to, paying his pennies to share a tub in the boardinghouse kitchen. Not that he'd mind sharing this one in particular. That's probably too forward. Or is it?

He bites his lip, working the soap to a lather in his hands and rising out of the water enough to work it into his skin; swathes up his throat and running down his chest. Hannibal watches, sipping his drink. He doesn't speak. The look in his eyes- behind the carefully portrayed indifference- sends heat spiraling through Will like a lightning strike. He can feel his body starting to react. "Hannibal."

"Yes, my dear?"

"Would you like to touch me now?"

"Yes, very much so."

"You can." He spreads his arms wide, on the lip of the tub, and Hannibal rescues his cup. He perches on the edge himself, fingers trailing in the water.

They trail up Will's arm next, featherlight. Abruptly, Will is glad for the cloudy water. He'd give too much away, otherwise. Hannibal's desire is mercifully clear as his fingers graze over Will's collarbones.

"How is the bathwater? You look - nicely flushed."

"Do I? It's good." He wets his lips.

Hannibal nods, fingertips smoothing a wet strand of hair back away from his face. Will closes his eyes, savoring a few more tentative touches, chin angled toward them. "Give me the soap?" Hannibal murmurs.

He takes it when Will hands it over, lathering it in the water for a few moments, turning it in his hands. "Lean forward." he instructs.

Will does, schooling his breaths carefully even before Hannibal has touched him. He smooths the lather across the planes of Will's back, dipping down below the water to follow his spine. Will closes his eyes and bites his lip, overcome. No one has touched him like this since he was a child, except for when - he cuts off the thought ruthlessly, but not before his lungs tighten at the thought of the hospital.

"Will, talk to me," Hannibal murmurs.

"No one has tended to me since the influenza ward," he bites out.

Hannibal's hands don't still, but they lose their purpose somewhat. "You were ill?"

"Yes. The same illness that took my parents."

"But you survived them." It's less a question than a statement of awe.

"Yes," Will replies.

Hannibal's hand draws circles against the flat of his back, his expression gone serious and thoughtful. "I am glad for this."

"Well, that's something."

"Do you like it?" Hannibal asks quietly.

"That you're touching me?"

"Being tended to," Hannibal corrects.

"It makes me feel helpless. It's something I generally avoid."

"I see."

Will glances at him. He lets out one of his shaky breaths. "I'm afraid a lot. You don't have to worry about it. I can work through being afraid."

"Very good," Hannibal says after a moment. "Now stand up."

Will does, after another shaky breath. There is one moment of perfect silence, not even disturbed by breaths. Hannibal reaches for him, dark eyes evaluating. "Gorgeous creature," he breathes.

Soapy palms cup Will's hips. He can't keep from blushing now, but he holds Hannibal's gaze determinedly.

Hannibal, for his part, turns him around and continues washing his skin. All of his skin. Will can't help the stutter as his fingers pass between his thighs, not-quite clinical but almost. Hannibal makes a soothing noise.

"If you wanted to look at me you didn't need an excuse," Will mumbles, hair hanging into his eyes in spiraling hooks.

"It's not an excuse."

"What is it then?"

"You said you liked me touching you."

"So this is for my benefit."

"Not entirely," Hannibal seems to repress a smile.

Will sighs a bit, sinking back into the water when Hannibal urges to rinse off. He stands again, turning to him. "Can I touch you too, then?"

"I would like that." Hannibal offers him the length of toweling. It takes Will only a second to get out of the bath and wrap himself up; several more to bind the fear enough to move to Hannibal, winding narrow arms around his neck.

"Thank you," he murmurs.

Hannibal folds his arms around him. If he thinks Will's actions childish, it doesn't show. With a sigh, Will leans to kiss him again. He runs his hands down the sides of Hannibal's neck, feeling the pulse thump before spreading them across his chest.

"Can I- I want this off." He plucks at Hannibal's shirt gently. Hannibal obligingly unlaces it and pulls it over his head, emerging mildly ruffled and bare chested.

Will's breath leaves him in a thin stream. He's not surprised he's beautiful, but fighting down all the ways it makes him feel occupies him fully for a minute. He leans in to kiss the sharp blade of his jaw. Hannibal cups his skull like he's feeling for cracks. His gaze is scorchingly intent. Will ducks his head, kisses the hollow of his throat.

"Come with me," Hannibal urges gently.

Will allows himself to be steered back to the bedroom. It's dark, only lit by the fire now. He can still see Hannibal well enough, especially the glint of his eyes. He steps back into the warmth of his body. It's all tempting too tempting to touch him again; let his nails dig into the muscle and hair his hands find.

Hannibal breathes in, but doesn't flinch. Will leans in and kisses between his hands, shivery with fear. Hannibal's hand finds his hair.

"Even in this, you're brave."

"Yes," Will murmurs.

Hannibal pulls him up and kisses him hard. He shudders, hands gripping. Hannibal's hands find the backs of his hips, drawing him closer. His fingers dig into the tender dimples at the base of Will's spine.

"I want- I want more," Will stutters against his lips.

"So do I."

"Tell me what to do."

"Untie my breeches," Hannibal murmurs.

Will does, huffing at the shake of his hands. He ignores it, knowing he can't hide it. Then he's shucking them down, biting his lip hard against his nerves. There's no reason to stare -except that Hannibal is gorgeous like this.

When he impacts the sheets, they feel like a cloud, and Will's eyes close for a moment. Hannibal's weight over him pulls him back to the present. His skin feels like satin. Will arches to maximize the contact. Hannibal makes a pleased noise.

"Touch me?" Will breathes.

Hannibal does so. Will is mesmerized by the cave of his powerful shoulders; the startlingly gentle press of his lips against Will's skin. But his hands, so fascinating to Will, so strong and careful, they move everywhere. It startles a noise out of him, stilted and shy.

"Beautiful," Hannibal tells him, moving like a lazy predator above him. Will grips at his shoulders and cringes at his own blush. When Hannibal shifts next, he takes the wrapped linen towel with him and Will gasps again.

"Acceptable?" Hannibal asks.

"Yes," Will groans, hands grasping Hannibal's back instead, feeling his back muscles shift.

Hannibal smiles and strokes over his belly and hips. He does it slowly, but in a savoring manner rather than tentative. Will wriggles despite his best efforts. Hannibal just moves with him, and Will makes a small noise as his hands finally skate up between his thighs.

"Have you done this before, Will?"

"No," Will says tightly. "Not this."

"You've been with women, though." It doesn't sound like a question.

 "If you want to call it that," Will sighs.

"Tell me what you'd call it."

"Proximity and physical reaction," Will grumbles.

"Sounds charming."

"I beg your pardon," Will grumbles.

"It doesn't sound like you felt it a particularly emotional exchange. I'm surprised."

"How so?" Will is caught by the observation.

"Well, from the reaction to my touch before, it means an awful lot to you."

Will takes a moment to think about it. "It was- she was nice, it wasn't... I liked her, and she liked me. She wanted to."

"And you didn't want to disappoint her."

"It's not just that- I was curious."

"No longer?"

"I'm curious about other things now."

Hannibal shifts. "Tell me."

Will summons his composure with a deep breath. "Curious about how it'd feel to have you inside me."

Hannibal takes his own breath. "Happy to satisfy that curiosity."

"Well, that's good." He stutters a bit as Hannibal kisses his knee.

"Your emotions seem to be running high tonight, my dear, if I might say so."

"You're in part to thank for that."

He smiles, fingers trailing up the crease of Will's thigh. "Only part?"

"I had my hands inside a human chest earlier."

"Very skillfully," Hannibal murmurs.

His tone makes Will bite his lip. "Did you like watching me?"

"I suspect I would always like watching you. I have yet to find a situation in which I dislike it."

"Did you specifically like watching me do that?"

He expects a rebuke for such a question, really. Hannibal tilts his head like he's considering giving him one, but there's not a denial. "You're perceptive, aren't you?"

"Excruciatingly," Will replies.

"A very impressive trick," Hannibal murmurs. Then he touches Will. His hand wraps around his cock, half hard from all the bare attention. Will gasps like he's been kicked, and pushes away the thought that all this is some kind of distraction technique. Hannibal certainly looks intent. He gives a few measured, easy strokes, humming at Will filling out in his hand. "Penetration can be overwhelming if it's your first time," he murmurs.

Will makes a noise just at the word. "Presumably that will be the case at any point- or were you referring to an emotional overwhelm?"

Hannibal chuckles. "In general, my dear."

"It wouldn't be the first time I've been overwhelmed by you," Will says, arching with another slow squeeze of his hand, "unless- you don't want to-"

"That's not my meaning at all."

"Then what is?"

"I would like to take my time with you. But it is difficult to hold back," Hannibal says, with every indication of honesty. The words swell through Will's brain on a tide of heat. Hannibal's hands on him, working and kneading him, are addling his thoughts.

"You can do what you want with me," he breathes.

"Careful what you wish for," Hannibal murmurs, thumb circling around Will's head.

"Don't- don't," Will cringes back at the touch, too much when Hannibal is looking at him like that. "Show me- I want you to."

Hannibal shifts until he's reclining next to Will, hand trailing up and down his soft belly. "All right."

He turns their mouths together. Will grips helplessly at his arm. Not trying to still it, just to hold on. Hannibal tastes maddeningly good, teeth grazing Will's lower lip at the end of each drawn out kiss. The rhythm is drugging. Will can't shake the feeling that he's falling under some kind of hypnosis. He doesn't even want to resist, though.

He lets his hand travel down Hannibal's body, angling toward him. Hannibal's eyes go half-closed with pleasure. He arches forward when Will curls a hand around him. This at least is something he's familiar with. He knows it's clumsy and inelegant, but Hannibal's breath still stalls with the twist of his wrist. So he does it again, watching through his lashes. He sees the tweaks of muscles in Hannibal's arms and stomach; the moment where he can't keep from touching any longer, dominant hand coming to grip Will's thigh. It hurts a bit. Will likes it a lot.

He also likes the feel of Hannibal in his hand. Weight and heat and pulsing desire. Remembering the carriage, he's seized by the compulsion to taste, and he echoes the motions Hannibal made earlier before bringing his damp fingers to his tongue. He sucks them into his mouth unthinkingly, forgetting he's being watched.

" _Will_ -" Hannibal's hand grips him tighter still.

Will's eyes jump up to his. He releases his fingers when Hannibal holds up his own, brushing against his lower lip. Will opens again, and Hannibal slides them over his tongue.

"Perfect," he tells Will softly, sending heat dripping down his sternum to his belly.

He explores the pads of Hannibal's fingers with his tongue. At the same time he curls his hands back around him and resumes his tentative strokes. He can feel the tension travel down Hannibal's spine, tilting his hips up. He keeps it up until Hannibal pulls his fingers away from his lips with a hum and with them, strokes a slick swathe between Will's thighs. Will whines and arches, not sure if he wants to move forward or back.

Hannibal's middle finger presses, just a teasing rub. He presses a kiss to Will's lower lip, gaze questioning. "Have you ever -"

Will's face heats up. "No, I haven't."

Hannibal nods, and carefully pulls back. "If you're certain about this, then we can take things slowly."

Will nods. "I am."

Hannibal pulls away, visibly reluctant, and goes to the dresser. He pulls out a glass jar and brings it back to the bed. Will bites his lip, awaiting further instruction.

"Would you be more comfortable on your back or your side, my dear?"

It's hard to know how he wants to feel Hannibal more. "Side," he murmurs.

Feeling Hannibal spooning up behind him is a pleasure of its own, from the warm plane of his chest against Will's back to the snug bracket of their hips. Hannibal kisses the back of his neck. Will doesn't think he remembers ever feeling like this before- an unbridled territory between incredible and fearful. He doesn't know if it's sustainable. But he feels _alive_. More alive than he'd felt standing in the cellar, peeping on a man's death.

Hannibal isn't just seeing him, he's experiencing him. And the reverse seems true as well. Though Will feels painfully inexperienced when Hannibal's movements behind him culminate in the return of slick fingers between his cheeks, that same stroking pressure but without the hesitation now.

"Try to relax," Hannibal murmurs into his ear.

Will nods, arching into his touch, breaths shivery. "I- I'm okay."

"Of course you are." Hannibal's fingertip presses now. Will lets out a thin, thready noise as he eases in. He remembers to breathe.

It doesn't feel like much at first- just like weight, a faint strain on muscle. The slide is slicker than he expected, some sort of oil easing it. Hannibal searches with the pad of his finger aimed toward Will's belly, and Will gasps when the caress triggers a shock of white heat.

Hannibal laughs softly. "Yes."

"Again," Will pleads softly.

Hannibal obliges him with a firmer press. It draws Will's breath out of him in ragged snatches. It feels strange but so good.

"More," he mutters.

"Of course." His nose brushes behind Will's ear, setting shivers into the array of sensations he's drowning in. He feels so much. Hannibal works him gently, until the press of his finger is easy and wet. "How do you feel?" He whispers.

"I like having you inside me," Will mumbles, too overcome to be anything but honest.

"I do as well."

Will arches to get their bodies closer, sighing at the heat. Hannibal sighs too. He starts to work another finger on the next thrust. It makes Will hiss at first, but then moan again as they slide in and he crooks them.

"Is it all right?" Hannibal murmurs.

Will nods, curls whisking against the sheets. "Yes, yes, it's good." He reaches back to touch Hannibal. He's solid and hot as a furnace. He makes a pleased noise when he feels Will's fingers on his shoulder.

Will shivers at his mouth on his throat. His hips are starting to work with Hannibal's rhythm. His pulse like a snare drum in his chest. He feels the press of Hannibal's cock against the back of his thigh when he shifts, and he nods at the unasked question, whining when Hannibal's hand slips to his thigh, spreading him wide as he nudges into position.

"Deep breath, then let it out."

Will does as he's told. The first press of Hannibal's length against him is hot and strange and makes him whimper. Hannibal's fingers rest on the notch of his collarbones, gentling as he pulls Will back into his hips with his other hand. He tries to remember to breathe but really he's just frozen, letting Hannibal move him as he wishes. Being taken into Hannibal's bed and made his- it's all he could ask for. The physical reality of it is as gratifying as he could hope, teeth-clenchingly intimate and fever hot. The pain exists but it's insignificant compared to the pulse-pounding rightness.

Hannibal's hand wraps around his cock, bringing him back sharply into the moment.

"Oh!" he cries out. It grinds everything else to a halt for a moment, the fullness and the tightness pulling him taut. Hannibal strokes him as he eases back with his hips before bottoming out once more. Will's mouth falls open. "Again," he breathes.

"Worry not," Hannibal murmurs. He rolls his hips, leisurely at first but picking up with intent. Will leans back into him. Tips his head back against his shoulder and moans at the way Hannibal molds around him, lips against his throat and their legs tangled. It lights a fire inside him. He didn't know he could feel so good, not from something as human and earthly as touch.

"Hannibal," he groans.

"Tell me." He's so close, forehead pressed into Will's temple as he slowly rocks, breaths evidently measured.

"This is the best thing - I couldn't have imagined -"

"Tell me how it feels," Hannibal presses, voice soft.

"Like I can feel my whole body." He wets his lips, gasping at another clench of Hannibal's hand. "It feels- it feels like every nerve in me is awake."

"They are," Hannibal murmurs, a hand finding his hair and stroking.

"Doesn't always feel that way."

"They are now." Hannibal nips at his neck.

"Yes, now you're here."

"Good," Hannibal whispers after a moment. He sounds entirely too pleased. Will thinks he deserves it. He arches his hips back, pushing onto his cock, keen not to lose momentum. Hannibal seems equally keen. He takes a harsh breath and snaps his hips forward in response.

Will leans back for a kiss. Fingers tender against his jaw, Hannibal obliges him as he starts to drive harder with his hips. Their breath sounds harsh between them. Everything else Will can hear is the mechanics of their bodies; soft wet flesh and skin on sheets. Will loses himself in the music of it. All the while, the tight coil of heat in him blooms. He moans again, louder now.

"Will," Hannibal's voice is smeared against his skin, breaths hot-damp. He sounds fractured. Will shakes against him. He's so close now, the pressure inside him building, a deep and electric need. He hitches his thigh and gasps at the barest change in angle. "Let it come," Hannibal murmurs against his throat.

Clutching at his shoulder, panting through the sensation, Will gasps as Hannibal starts to fuck him hard, fast rocks, hand moving quick on his cock. His end crests high like a wave, leaving him gasping for air. His body locks into an arch. He spills wet and messy over Hannibal's fingers, his moan choked against his lips.

Hannibal keeps moving, mouth still coaxing noises out of Will. He can't contain them anymore than he can keep himself from convulsing again at the continued pressure against his prostate.

"Hannibal please- please let me feel it, I want-"

"I know," Hannibal says tightly. His hand slips from Will's cock, smearing slick up his belly as his grip tightens. He drives into Will's body until his own breathing clogs and stutters. Will grips at his hair tighter as Hannibal pushes until he bottoms out, and then comes deep inside him. He feels it so strongly. His hand over his own stomach feels protective, possessive of the knowledge that he did that to Hannibal. His breath floods hot over the back of Will's neck. He's touching him carefully, like he's afraid of his own strength now.

Will whimpers a bit when their shifting pulls them apart. "No- wait-" he grips back at him urgently.

"Will?" Hannibal murmurs.

"Don't- I don't want to be apart just yet."

"I am not going away, my dear."

"I know-" Will's face heats. He gives up. Hannibal makes a low noise and reaches down, slips a finger back inside him.

"Is this what you want?" he murmurs, not so much stroking as pressing deep.

"Ye-es," Will whimpers.

Hannibal sighs, scenting deeply at the junction of his throat, working his fingers into the softness of him until Will cries out at the over-stimulation. Then he soothes him into relaxation again. When Will finally unwinds enough to let him go, he only retrieves the linen from before, using it to clean them up as best he can before he covers Will with his body and the sheets.

Hannibal's weight pressing him into a soft mattress is the most soothing thing Will can imagine. He closes his eyes, stretching out his hand and sighing in content when Hannibal immediately laces their fingers. He falls asleep between two breaths.


	6. Chapter 6

The boy doesn't seem to have nightmares, with Hannibal spooned up behind him all night. It's a relief, both for Hannibal's ease and certainly for his own rest. He wakes with Will curled toward him, cheek pillowed against his shoulder, his face still and sweet with sleep.

Hannibal allows himself to stroke through his fragrant curls. He can't stop thinking about last night; about Will squirming back into his touch and fearlessly accepting everything he had to give. Hannibal cannot remember the last time he was given such a gift. He's still lost in the memory of it when Will stirs in his arms, sighing soft.

"Good morning," Hannibal murmurs.

Will looks up at him, and his ears turn spectacularly pink. "Morning," he whispers.

Hannibal brushes the skin to feel its heat. He can't help but smile. "Are you well?"

"I'm very well, thank you." He still squirms a bit. Hannibal smooths his palm down his side soothingly.

"You look well. I am pleased to wake with you."

If he's surprised by the formality- or the familiarity- Will doesn't say so, but the blush spreads across the bridge of his nose. "I'm pleased too." With an expression that suggests he feels daring, Will leans up and touches their cheeks together.

Hannibal strokes his cheek, tipping their mouths together in a gentle kiss. He keeps it light, and exults as Will pushes into it. Will makes a satisfied keening sound at the arch of his body. Hannibal feels the slow thump of his heart, the rush of blood to each part of his body, tingling skin in the places where they touch.

Will feels delectable, lithe and young and warm. He bites at Hannibal's lower lip and hums in pleasure at the little jolt it triggers. Hannibal stifles a smile and stretches out to let him play. They twist until Will sits up on his hips, stretching out sleepily above him. He's still blushing.

"This," Hannibal murmurs. "Allow me to paint you like this."

Will bites his lip. "What, now?"

"I suppose I might feed you first," Hannibal smiles.

"All right." Will leans down, tentatively, and kisses him again. Hannibal waits until he lets up and then sits up next to him, walking unconcernedly naked over to his wardrobe. Will pulls the sheets around his waist and sits on the bed, rubbing his eyes.

Hannibal smiles. "Would you like a robe?"

"I- I can get dressed if we're going downstairs."

"As you wish." Hannibal follows suit, hoping to put him at ease. Downstairs, Chiyoh is waiting in the kitchen. Hannibal greets her politely, Will with some degree of hesitation. She gives them both impassive glances before serving them coffee and breakfast, and then withdraws.

Will frowns. "I hope she isn't leaving because of me."

"She is an earlier riser than me, she will have already eaten," Hannibal reassures him.

Will bites his lip. "All right."

Hannibal watches him. He wonders if Chiyoh has said something to the boy to make him look so nervous. He's sensitive enough to pick up on her moods, however. He watches Will eat and puts it from his mind. He's already thinking of painting. He mixed some pigment only a couple of days ago, and he's done studies but- this will be different.

Sensing his distraction, Will focuses back on him. When their eyes meet, he bites his lip and sits back in his chair, putting his shoulders back. Strange to Hannibal, how he ranges so wildly between self-conscious and challenging. Youth...Hannibal feels he barely remembers his own.

He wets his lips at the exposed plane of Will's chest where his shirt gapes, and sees him smile.

A bit more challenging today, then. It reminds him viscerally of the orchard. "Eat your breakfast," he tells him.

"I have been," Will replies pertly. "You distracted me."

"Pray tell, how was I distracting you?"

"You know quite well."

"I'm afraid I don't, Will."

"You stare at me."

"I haven't noticed you diligently studying your plate."

"I suppose not," Will says, unchastened.

Hannibal gives him a little, encouraging smile. "Are you enjoying yourself, Will?"

"I- of course." He smiles at his own lap and spears a bit of his breakfast with his fork. "Are you?"

"Very much so."

"Good..." he bites his lip. "Sometimes when you look at me, I see a terrible thing in your face. I think it's the same thing I feel, when I look at you." He runs a hand through his hair. "I don't know what it means, but I'm... starting to see the shape of it. I think I like it."

"It's terrible, but you like it?" Hannibal murmurs, more amused than anything else.

"I don't always think terrible things are... bad," Will says, gone shy now.

Something flares in Hannibal's chest. "Terrible can often mean defying comprehension," he offers, gently. "Some things are terrible just because they are complex."

Will takes a deep breath but doesn't disagree. "Some things are terrible because they're simple," he says, eventually.

Hannibal inclines his head. "Nothing is ever simple."

Will raises a brow. "Not with you, I suspect, Conte."

Hannibal smiles. "Nor you, Will. Are you almost ready to pose?" he murmurs.

"Yeah." Will turns a little pink. "I might need to wash up a little bit first."

"As you like, I'll have Chiyoh bring hot water up."

Will nods. "Thank you." He carefully rises, and hesitates for a moment before Hannibal nods.

Sometime later, when Will is clean and Chiyoh is nowhere to be seen, he comes to find Hannibal in the studio, hovering nervously in the doorway. Hannibal is busy inspecting his prepared canvases. "Come in, Will. I'm nearly ready to start."

Will prowls the studio again while Hannibal works, his inspection more overt this time. He feels strangely like he's missed the space; the high windows and sunlit beams. It feels different with a model inside; and such a model. Will touches at the edges of paintings; lingers on studies of naked, blood slicked strangers. Hannibal watches him and eventually hums.

"Will. I'm ready now."

"How shall I pose?"

Hannibal gestures to the chaise. "However you're most comfortable."

"And what am I wearing?" he asks with his brows raised.

Hannibal tilts his head. "What were you wearing this morning?"

"Just the smell of you."

"I believe you've washed that away. You'll have to wear even less."

Will bites his lip, and strips off his shirt. Hannibal stifles a smile and moves to his easel, standing easily and waiting. The color rising high in Will's face is entirely too appealing. So are his hands working at the ties of his breeches. Hannibal watches him drop them and then sit carefully on the chaise. He's beautiful. It would please him, perhaps, to paint him as Narcissus, though it does not truly reflect his soul. He sighs at the sight, picking up a brush.

"Lie down," he instructs him gently.

Will does, curling carefully onto his side, cheek pillowed on one arm. Hannibal sighs softly again, pleased beyond measure. He sketches in the shape of the pose over the next little while, before beginning to block in colors. Will is beautifully still, eyes half closed, hair draped into them. Hannibal has been silent thus far, but he murmurs Will's name now. He sees him glance up but he doesn't move. "Are you comfortable?"

"Mm," Will nods barely.

"Good. You look lovely."

That makes him smile a bit.

 "I feel lovely, when you watch me."

"You're loveliness personified, Will." The painting is taking slow shape in planes and glazes of color. Hannibal continues for a while, glancing at Will every now and again. His own concentration is unparalleled, but eventually he needs to rest for a few minutes. Stretched out in the sun, Will seems quite at his leisure.

Hannibal moves to his side, touching his curls gently. His presence seems to bring Will suddenly back to life, reaching up for him, his lashes catching the sunlight. He tugs Hannibal to sit next to him on the plush upholstery. "Still looking at me," he breathes, winding his arms slowly around his neck.

"Yes, indeed, I can't quite bring myself to look away."

"Good. Don't."

Hannibal leans down for a kiss instead. He pulls Will gently, half draped over his lap, and smiles at his arms tightening as the kiss deepens. "Oh dear," Hannibal murmurs. "You've lost the pose."

"What's to be done about that?" Will whispers.

"I could remind you."

"Feel free."

Hannibal takes the opportunity to smooth his hands over soft bare skin. He's entirely expecting Will's little noise; not quite the effect it has on him. It's maddening, setting his blood aflame. Will's fingers stroke into his hair and he arches. Hannibal just wants to savage him. He has the right shades of paint for it. He pulls back and meets Will's gaze, and sees savagery reflected there. This is what Will meant at breakfast, he thinks. It feels good to be seen.

Still watching, he scrapes his nails down the center of Will's chest. His jaw drops, eyes clenching shut. "Hannibal-"

"You look beautiful like this," Hannibal murmurs.

"I want- I want more," Will breathes.

Hannibal mouths at his neck, scraping over his ribs this time. The feel of him shaking against him is overwhelming.

Will grabs at his hair. "Is this how you really want to paint me?"

"Yes," Hannibal grits.

"Then do it," he tips his head back even farther.

Hannibal closes his eyes, breathing hard. "Will."

"What would make you say yes?"

"I don't think you understand what you're asking for."

"Then tell me, by God, Hannibal."

Hannibal stops, still holding Will, frozen by the impulse to show him. He can't. Will makes a frustrated noise and pushes out of his arms.

"Will..." Hannibal restrains him gently. Will shoots him a venomous look. Hannibal meets his eyes and he stills. Hannibal lets him go slowly. "We're both taking a break. Put your robe on."

Will does with stiff, unhappy movements, stalking onto the balcony. Hannibal lets him go. He has to breathe; to get himself under control. He dislikes this feeling intensely.

Eventually, he goes to Will. Even with the wind stirring his hair and his eyes blazing, he looks the picture of Hannibal's daydreams.

 "Dearest Will," he murmurs.

Will looks over the fields, folding his arms. Hannibal sees him then- not a boy but a man denied. Hannibal doesn't wish to deny him, but he wants him to survive.

"Are you so quick to throw your life away, then?" Hannibal says softly.

Will shrugs softly. "You wouldn't let me die."

"But I would want to." It's a small, poisonous truth, and Will clutches himself. Hannibal wonders if he feels compelled to run away. "Part of me would," he corrects himself. If Will doesn't run from his truth, he won't have to let that part take ascendancy.

Will swallows. He looks at Hannibal over his shoulder, and there's fear in his face but something else, too. The something else gives him a dangerous feeling of hope. He holds a hand out slowly. Will steps a step closer. He lets Hannibal take his hand with a sigh.

"I will attempt to repay your trust in kind," Hannibal murmurs.

Will nods, keeping his eyes down. "I'd appreciate that."

Hannibal leans against his back, smoothing curls behind his ear. He kisses gently at the skin there. He can feel Will tense with every brush of skin, but slowly, he relaxes. Hannibal tastes his skin along the backs of his shoulders. Will arches back to let him roll down the neck of his robe. It droops over his spine and Hannibal's mouth follows it. He feels him shiver at the touch.

"Hannibal..."

He pauses. His hands slide lightly down Will's flanks. "Yes, I'm listening."

"I'm just- I'm." He sighs. "I feel like I shed my skin last night. Like I don't know myself today."

"Tender and soft?" Hannibal murmurs.

"Raw," Will agrees quietly.

"If it means you will gift me with the truth..."

"Ask me what you want to know," Will mutters.

"What draws you to me?" Hannibal murmurs. "Truly."

"Who you are," Will shrugs, "how you look at me. Necrolatry." He gives Hannibal a sharp look when he fails to respond to that last. "Your control."

Hannibal nods, considering. "Is that all?"

"What else is there?"

He's really asking, Hannibal realizes. "There's affection, and respect," he says.

"Which you have for me."

"Naturally," Hannibal murmurs.

Will shrugs. "And there's the other thing."

"Yes?"

"The terrible thing," Will murmurs.

"I would like to discuss that aspect especially."

"All right." Will nods. "I believe you are singularly inclined to violence," he murmurs.

"Do you have a basis for this belief?"

"I can see it, Hannibal," he says intently.

"Can you. No one else ever has."

"I'm not everyone else."

"I know that." Hannibal reaches out to touch his cheek.

Will lets his eyes flicker shut. "You've admitted what you want, Hannibal."

"I know, but you mustn't let me have it."

"I want you to have me." Hannibal closes his eyes too. "Is there a way?" Will murmurs. "To satisfy us both?"

"Compromise can be a case of trial and error." He touches Will's shoulders; he can't help himself.

Will raises his chin, shivery and visibly rallying his defiance. "I can if you can."

Hannibal finds, to little surprise, that he can't deny him anything. He cups his face, watching him meet his gaze with steel in his eyes. "You want me that much."

"Very much," Will murmurs.

"I don't particularly enjoy being manipulated," Hannibal murmurs.

"How have I manipulated you?"

"You've made yourself exceedingly vulnerable, my dear, and coaxed a very expensive truth from me."

Will wets his lips. "You haven't exactly held me at arms' length."

"Can you blame me?"

"I'm sure there are plenty of things I could blame you for."

Hannibal studies him. "You won't. You admire them."

"I'm fascinated. I don't know if it's the same."

Hannibal does. He thinks Will does as well. But he won't push. "Fascinated. All right."

Will looks down. "Touch me."

"I am," Hannibal reminds him.

"More than that."

Watching his face, Hannibal reaches for the belt of his robe. Will takes in a deep, slow breath, stillness trained.

"Your restraint is admirable."

"Is it? It feels flimsy."

"Not when one considers how deeply you seem to feel things, dear boy." He watches Will's eyelashes flicker, his tongue sweep his lower lip as Hannibal slides his hands inside his robe and pets at the soft skin of his flanks. He wants to know how completely pain translates to pleasure in that fascinating mind. Slowly, he leans in to bite at his bared shoulder.

Will hisses slowly but doesn't move a muscle. He arches when Hannibal slips a hand to the curve of his ass, fingers gripping gentle. He responds to both touches with equal beauty. Hannibal kisses under his ear; nips at the lobe. Will grips tighter at him.

"You're doing that on purpose," he hisses.

"Doing what, Will?"

"Teasing. Shameless of you, Conte."

"As shameless as demanding to be groped on a balcony?" Hannibal smiles.

"Is there anyone around for a mile? Anyone besides your attendant, who already thinks the worst of me, that is."

"Not you. Me."

"Oh?"

Hannibal touches at Will's lower lip with his thumb compulsively. "She knows."

"You haven't killed her either."

"No, I haven't." He caresses Will's face, pulling him closer with the other hand.

Will goes up on his toes to kiss him again, arms folding around his neck. The robe flutters around them. Hannibal wishes he could see the picture they make. He should like to paint it. It's so vivid in his mind's eye.

Will nips at his lower lip, and his thoughts rocket back to him; his silent demand for attention. Hannibal is nearly as amused by the strength of his need as he is affected by it. "Have you found a taste for something other than knowledge, Will?"

"You know I have."

Hannibal hums. "Back inside." He steers them both. Will hardly lets go of him.

"I'd let you have me out there," Will murmurs when they're back inside. "And I think you'd like it."

"It's not practical for what I have in mind."

Will sniffs. "Which is?"

"Lying you down and tasting every inch of you."

He feels the stir of Will's cock against him and knows he'll give in as soon as he gets over his annoyance. He ties his robe again, ears turning pink. "Your room, then-?"

"The chaise will serve perfectly well," Hannibal murmurs. "I'll help you remember your pose."

Will makes a soft noise, letting Hannibal steer him back toward him and disrobe him completely. He sinks into the plush blue upholstery like he's already a painting. Hannibal kneels between his thighs, smiling at his pretty blush. He bends one slim leg and kisses the fine arch of his foot. Will's shudder makes his stomach crease.

"Hannibal..."

"Was I not clear?"

"For once in your existence, yes," Will mumbles.

Hannibal doesn't rise to the bait. He kisses the inside of Will's ankle; cups his calf and tries not to think of sinking his teeth into supple muscle. He succeeds only partially. Will's other calf folds around his waist, tugging him closer. It seems his little game is unpopular. He puts his hands on Will's stomach to steady him and nips the inside of his knee. He feels Will's little shiver at the touch of teeth.

He keeps it up; stinging pinches and bites that make him twitch and whine. In between he touches his tongue to warm skin, tasting and scenting. Finally he bends; licks a swathe in the warm join of hip and thigh, and Will groans.

"Hannibal," he arches up.

"Hush," he tells him.

"You know how to distract me."

"You need distracting." Hannibal lets his teeth pinch to demonstrate.

Will grabs gently at his hair with a yelp. "Do it again."

Hannibal obliges him. He preens on the inside at the response. Will sounds like he's never been touched this way in his life. Hannibal would hazard he hasn't. He would have to know enough to ask.

He soothes a particularly sharp bite with his tongue, humming at Will's tightening fingers. Tasting like this is everything he wants, even if Will clearly wants his mouth somewhere else. His little, disgruntled moan makes him smile. Will bares his own teeth at that.

"Let me touch you."

Hannibal pretends to think about it. "I'm not finished." He licks at the join of hip and thigh again, teeth sliding up to worry at the hipbone.

Will sighs and shifts. Hannibal makes slow progress up over his ribs, pausing to press against his heart. Will's hands cup his cheeks. Hannibal waits for his tug, and he doesn't have to wait long. Will kisses him like a man drowning from the lack of it. It's impossible not to be swept along with the tide of his desperation.

Hannibal nips at his lips; the underside of his jaw. "I haven't finished tasting you yet," he murmurs.

Will sighs slowly. "Then might I suggest you make haste?"

"You can suggest."

Will closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He trails his fingers over Hannibal's cheeks. Hannibal kisses the inside of his wrists in turn and then tracks back down his body. He nips at a collarbone and curls his tongue around a nipple. It's a more direct contact than he allowed last time, and Will's body curls up in response. Hannibal presses him back down into the cushions.

"Hannibal-" he hisses it, soft and indignant.

"I'm nearly done." He's amused how little time it's taken Will to become accustomed to asking for what he wants. Amused, and delighted. Behind the blushes is something incredibly stubborn. Now, he sets his chin and frowns down at Hannibal, but stays quiet. It makes Hannibal want to coax a reaction.

He focuses the movements of his tongue pointedly. Will is nicely responsive, even though he's trying not to be. He shivers hard, stretching out. Hannibal rubs his cheek against Will's chest. He hums softly. "Would you like to move now?" he murmurs.

"Please, yes."

Hannibal loosens his grip. Will curls back up to him immediately. His hands curl around his neck, spearing through his hair. Hannibal sighs when he gently tugs.

"And what will you do with me?" he murmurs.

Will bites his lip. "Quid pro quo," he mumbles.

Hannibal regards him for a moment, his flushed cheeks and chest, and shifts to sit on the chaise.

"Come here, kneel over my lap."

"Hannibal?" Will says questioningly.

"Come along," Hannibal says again, patiently. Will shifts to straddle him, knees slotting on each side of his waist. Hannibal feels the shiver when he cups his hips and bends to kiss his stomach.

"You've been patient."

"You're worth it, Conte," Will murmurs.

"Am I? No more hesitation?"

"Did I seem hesitant to you last night?"

"No. But you were - emotional yesterday."

"Was I emotional on the way back from Venice?"

"You were greedy, and lovely."

Will bites his lip, his flushed cock notably stirring at the mention. The thought he's remembering is... stirring.

"Tell me what you'd like now, Will."

"I'd like your mouth on me some more," he whispers, "please."

Hannibal smiles. "I thought you were tired of humoring me."

Will just curls his fingers into his hair, plaintive.

"Very well," Hannibal murmurs, standing up and placing him back onto the chaise. "Hands and knees, darling."

Will sets his jaw, a little defiance there. "That sounds like humoring you."

"Does it?" Hannibal lets his fingers trail up the tender skin of one pale thigh.

"It does."

"I think you'll like it too."

Will considers that, and then moves to do as he's bid. Hannibal soothes his palms up to squeeze his pert young cheeks. The noise in response is only faintly annoyed. Then he leans in and trails his tongue along the same smooth skin.

The word Will utters next is entirely ungentlemanly.

Hannibal smiles. "Humor me," he repeats. And then he dips to drag a wet stripe between his cheeks, slow and savoring, and hears Will's gasp.

"You can't- there-"

In the interest of contrariness, Hannibal does it again. This time, he presses slightly with his tongue, and Will moans.

" _Hannibal_ -" it's such a beautiful sound, in Will's voice. He licks harder. Feels the moment Will's body goes liquid under the sensation. His head falls forward between his arms. When Hannibal pushes in with his tongue and laps deeply, he feels the moan Will gives. His body is so hot and silky, and Hannibal wants to feel more of him. He grips his flesh and buries his face with renewed determination. As Will gets wetter from his mouth, he slides a fingertip in next to his tongue. Another low, urgent groan greets the beckoning motion he makes.

"What are you doing to me," Will pants.

Hannibal hums softly. He twists his finger gently. "Putting my mouth on you."

"Not just that," Will pants.

"Do you like it?"

"Yes, _yes_ ," he sounds deliciously sincere.

"Do you want more?"

"Yes- I do, please-"

He slides in another finger, licks in between them. He feels Will's toes curl on his moan.

_Yes, lovely boy_ , he thinks. _I have only one kind of death for you._

It's a stirring realization. He feels it deep inside himself. He _wants_ him. Here, like this, maybe always. A partner. Someone who knows his appetites, and appeases them.

He pulls his mouth away, kissing at Will's creamy hip. "Will-"

"Hannibal-" He sounds a little drunk on it.

Hannibal plunges his fingers deeper. "I need to be inside you again."

"Yes," he gasps, "yes."

He pushes back automatically. He's so hot, bottomlessly willing. His body grips Hannibal's fingers, pulls them in. When Hannibal extracts them, Will makes the softest noise of dismay.

Hannibal kisses his spine. "This isn't the place for this. Come to my rooms."

"This- Hannibal, you started it in here, I can't just-"

"Please?"

Another little, indignant noise before Will moves. Hannibal keeps him close with an arm around his slim waist, and he swats at his flank playfully. With his robe wrapped back around him, Will lets himself be steered toward Hannibal's rooms.

He's practically panting with evident desire. And in the privacy of his bed, Hannibal finds himself being enthusiastically disrobed. Frantically, even. He steers the boy toward carefulness, but Will still throws Hannibal's undershirt aside before he lets himself be pulled in against him, their bare skin dragging.

"Take me, and don't hold back this time," he hisses.

Hannibal delights in the noise he makes when he bends him over the edge of the mattress. Grateful and impatient both.

A little oil to smooth the way and he finally starts to press in, watching himself stretching Will. Their bodies together feel like art. Will feels like it.

"Mine," Hannibal whispers.

"Yes, Hannibal-" He hisses when Hannibal bottoms out. His noises are soft and wordless but unmistakable in tone. He's lost to the pleasure of it.

"Beautiful boy," Hannibal praises, thumbs touching on the small of his back as he grips him. Will pushes back onto him shamelessly. He's looking back at Hannibal, cheeks stained pink and lips bitten, his eyes steely.

"More, please," he murmurs.

Hannibal makes a considering noise and shifts, propping his foot on the mattress to thrust harder. Will's hands clench in the sheets. He makes a low, animal noise. Just the line of his long, narrow back has Hannibal close to raptures. More noises spill from his mouth. Will's back bows. Hannibal slides a hand up his spine to twist into his hair. When he pulls him up, his other hand grasping his belly to keep him close, Will squeezes around him with a soft moan.

"Good," Hannibal whispers. "Feel me inside." When Will whimpers at another thrust, Hannibal can't help the shock of heat, forcing his breath out of him through his teeth. He strokes through Will's curls, kissing at his throat slowly. "Still tender from last night, mm?"

"Feels good," Will whimpers.

"Good. Good." He nips at the side of his throat. It's easier to rock into him now, holding him close, grinding deep. "Is this enough, Will, or do you still think of my hands round your heart?"

"Sounds like you still think about it," Will deflects.

"Only as a lovely thought, beautiful boy."

"Good, I think I'll need it a while longer."

"I have a great many other things I'd like to share with you instead."

"Such - ah..." he pauses at a particularly deep roll of Hannibal's hips. "Such as?"

"My bed. My studio. The thrill of the hunt."

Will's reply is swallowed up in a moan when Hannibal circles his hips deeply before he picks up his pace again. He presses between Will's shoulder blades, delighted at how his back arches.

"Hannibal please," he pants softly.

"I'm here." He slows a little, strokes gentling, and Will peers at him again.

"Tell me this feels the same for you," he gasps.

"You want to know I'm affected?"

" _Yes_ , Hannibal, I do."

"Will..." he pulls back, struck for a moment. "Please believe me that I am."

"Show me," Will whispers.

Hannibal folds down over his back, mouth finding his skin. He kisses, soft and sweet, and then pulls away from him carefully, turning Will gently with his hands.

"Lie down on the bed for me."

Will lets himself be arranged, a vertical line creasing between his brows. This time Hannibal can smooth his hands over his chest in a long circle, dipping his head to kiss his skin.

"I have never been so affected by anyone, my darling." He kisses down to his stomach; dips to suck at the head of his flushed, leaking cock, savoring Will's groan of desperation. "Never before, never again."

He kisses the insides of his thighs, then reapplies the oil from before, guiding Will's calves back up to his shoulders as he slides himself back inside his body. He can go so deep like this. Unimaginably deep, and hot, and smooth. And Will can reach up and cup his face, looking entirely dismantled by the way Hannibal fucks him, fast and hard.

"Believe me, Will. Trust me."

"Yes," Will cries out, "yes-"

"Always, Hannibal, yes -" he chokes on the word, hips stuttering. Another thrust has him writhing and grasping at Hannibal.

Hannibal sucks his searching fingers into his mouth, caressing them as he pumps his hips.

"Oh god-" His mouth falls open, his eyes closed.

One hand curls slowly around his cock. He makes a low, helpless noise as he strokes. Hannibal watches avidly as he spreads leaking slick over his skin.

"Good," he says softly, "good, Will."

"Keep moving," Will begs.

Hannibal hasn't stopped, and has no intention of doing so, but he still pushes Will's knees wide and down toward his chest and fucks faster into the squeezing heat of him. He makes ragged noises, tilting his head back to expose his lovely pale throat. Hannibal has to touch it, fingertips delicate. Skin like silk, moans vibrating under the surface.

"Gorgeous," he tells Will softly. He is. Otherworldly. He is all Hannibal can see. All he can feel.

He feels like they're merging in his mind. As if Will is a pool of hot water that he could submerge himself in and never be heard from again. A siren pulling him into the depths. He buries his mouth in the junction of Will's throat and thrusts a few more notes out of him. Will's flesh gives against the edges of his teeth. His fingers knot in Hannibal's hair, hand moving faster between them. Hannibal feels him tighten up. He pleads Hannibal's name softly, wordlessly asking permission.

Hannibal kisses his throat and whispers, "Let go."

The clench of his muscles is intense and staggering. He thrusts into it. Will's wordless cry grows frantic, another pearly flood beading between his fingers. Hannibal can only move inside him, milk his release. He only stops when he sees him shy from the overstimulation. Then he pulls out.

"It's all right," he murmurs, when Will makes an uncertain noise. He lifts Will's hand and kisses the dirty palm.

Will nods hurriedly. He wraps his slick palm around Hannibal. Stroking in tandem with the rocks of his hips, their mouths smearing together. When he finally spills, it's a hot splash across his boy's pale chest.

Will groans weakly. Hannibal kisses his fingers again, and Will grasps his shoulder and tugs him down next to him. His clutching isn't affectionate so much as desperate for assurance. He turns his face up like a flower to the sun. Hannibal kisses him deep and cherishing. He presses a hand to Will's chest, smearing their mess into his skin. Beneath his palm, Will's heart hammers. Hannibal kisses him until he feels it starting to slow.

His fondness is dangerous. Everything he feels for the boy is dangerous.

He lies down beside him and accepts him crawling on top of him. Even accepting the mess. Will seems happier when he can feel Hannibal's aliveness. Hannibal agrees. He strokes the mess of curls and down Will's back, contemplating another bath. Perhaps one for them both.

Another thought occurs to him, one born entirely of self-indulgence.

"Do you swim?"

"Yes," Will says, peeking up at him.

"Do you _like_ to swim?"

"Yes."

"Come down to the river with me? I'd like to see you in the water."

"Are you getting in the water?" Will teases gently.

"Will that sweeten the pot?"

"It might."

"Yes, I'll be in the water."

Will smiles lazily.

"Perhaps first we could catch our breath."

"That's fair."

That makes Will smile, but there's an edge there. Hannibal waits with interest for whatever he's about to say. No drawn-out bliss for his boy; his mind is always turning.

"The dream I have..."

"About me?"

"About the bodies." Will bites his lip. "About the thing that watches."

"Oh, that dream." He strokes through his curl again. "What about it?"

Will blushes.

"Sometimes, I suppose when I'm not actively directing my thoughts, that creature appears to me."

"I see. And?"

Another reluctant silence.

"It...isn't always threatening."

"What else is it?" He skims his fingertip over Will's cheek.

"It wants to _fuck_ me," he says with deep-red cheeks and ears.

A considering silence, stark against the warm noon buzz of bird and trees outside. Hannibal wets his lips, scenting the air.

"And you let it."

He nods silently. Another thrum of heat inside, like a string plucked to produce one last note. Hannibal's hands tighten on Will unbidden, and he lets his stubble scrape the boy's bare neck as he tucks himself closer.

"And when death is inside you, how do you feel?"

"Powerful," Will whispers.

"Like you have some hold over it?"

"Like it's my creature."

"And how do you think your creature feels about this tether?"

"Proud," Will says after a long moment.

Hannibal hums again softly. "Yes, I imagine so."

"A little nonplussed too," Will adds.

"You're probably right. How odd it must be, to be a deity so fierce, brought to such savage earthly ceremonies."

"Do you think so?"

"I'm sure it's not necessarily a bad thing. Why do you mention it now, Will?"

A shorter pause this time, but Will's voice is thready.

"Because it was here while we were together."

Hannibal considers. "Just now?"

"Yes," Will breathes.

"And?" Hannibal murmurs.

Now, Will's silence is prolonged enough that Hannibal doesn't think he'll get an answer.

"I think it's you," he whispers finally. "I think it's always been you."

"You think I am death?"

"Will you tell me differently?"

"Did you dream of your creature before we met?"

Will shakes his head, enticing Hannibal to touch his curls again.

"Then maybe you have simply seen me as you know me to be."

Will takes a breath. "Yes."

"Our subconscious sometimes tries to tell us things our rational mind rejects."

"What makes you so sure," Will says slowly, "that my rational mind rejects it?"

"Not anymore," Hannibal points out.

"Not anymore," Will echoes. He smells of opportunity. Hannibal allows himself a deep breath of it.

"Let's go for a swim," he prompts.

"All right, Conte, lead the way."

They get up and modest before they tread the same path they took back up to the house the day of their chase, winding down toward the river. Hannibal is quietly amused when Will brushes their fingers together. He takes his hand more fully, lifting it to his lips to kiss his knuckles.

"You are inspiring, lovely boy."

Will doesn't seem overly flattered by that, more wary, but it's endearing. Hannibal rather likes him wary.

At the edge of the river, he pulls Will in and starts to undo his shirt. Will is pleasantly flushed already. When Hannibal rids him of the last of his clothes, he lets him look a moment before he steps down the sandy bank to the water. Knowing he likely has paintings in mind. The liquid gold light glancing onto Will's skin as he wades into the water is stunning.

Hannibal drinks his fill of it. Then, he undresses and follows him in. The water licks silkily around his calves, then his thighs. Ahead, Will watches him, the current trickling gently around his chin and his hair tugged gently in its path like the trailing leaves of the flanking willow trees stooped by the banks. He's floating, moving his arms lazily like a dancer. As Hannibal had suspected he would be, he's ethereal and nymph-like in the dappled sunlight. And he's smiling.

When their eyes meet, Hannibal practically feels the rest of the world disappear like a candle snuffed, before Will disappears under the glassy surface of the water like a specter.

Hannibal smiles, braces his feet and waits. The first skim of warmth against his calf makes him shiver. It feels exactly like a water nymph might.

Will's mink head crowns the surface of the water before Hannibal, his lips brushing the tan of his stomach. Wet skin skims up against his all at once. He looks pale as bone, birthed from the current like a statue unveiled. Hannibal takes him slowly in his arms and devours the sight of him.

"My own forest creature," he says fondly.

"You found me in the dusty halls of a city university," Will reminds him mildly.

"You belong here."

"So you rehabilitated me?" Will tips his head up.

"You merely became what you were intended to be."

"Yours," Will posits, dryly.

"Are you mine, or am I yours? I suspect it's a matter of perspective."

Will bites his lip at that, and Hannibal thumbs a few droplets of glimmering water from his lashes.

"You are always a surprise."

"Glad to hear it."

"You are, aren't you."

"I seldom say anything I don't mean."

"I know. It's refreshing."

"I know," Hannibal murmurs, stroking his cheek.

Will leans into him, cool skin sticking slightly. Their lips find one another in a smooth slide, and Hannibal tastes Will's content on the swipe of his tongue.

The sun slips across his shoulders as he kisses his boy in the shallows.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full disclosure: this chapter contains some frankly disturbing imagery, a little horror and gore but nothing you wouldn't expect from these two. If you'd like specific tws/cws for the nightmare scene, please see the end notes.

The rest of the hazy afternoon is spent back in the studio, Will reading a book as Hannibal paints, occasionally offering a soft instruction for Will to renew tension in an arm or thigh. Hair dried in the warmth, Will feels dozy and surprisingly carefree as the evening rolls around.

The sun sinking coral and gold beyond the black brush stroke trees, Hannibal finally sets aside his brush and pallet.

"Dinner, I think, is in order."

"Shall I assist?"

"By all means. Though you're welcome just to watch."

Will nods and follows him down.

As ever, Hannibal seems nearly meditative as he prepares the ingredients for dinner.

"I haven't seen Chiyoh for a while," Will comments, sipping the wine Hannibal gave him.

"No," Hannibal says. "I asked her to go to Venice for a few days."

"Oh?" A note of surprise at that.

"I realize you're not completely comfortable about one another quite yet."

"Well, sending her all the way to Venice seems excessive," Will huffs, a laugh underneath.

"It's a two-hour ride," Hannibal hides his own smile. Will spies it anyway.

"For me, eh."

"Yes, for you." He pulls Will in to kiss him.

Will is dizzied by him, his attention, his heavy love. He lets Hannibal hold him up.

"Sweet thing," Hannibal murmurs. The love wraps around him like roots, like vines. Will turns his cheek into his shoulder and clutches at him. Hannibal kisses his hair. "I need to cook, _tesoro_."

"Just a second longer."

He is granted his second. Hannibal kisses the top of his head. Then he sets him gently aside and returns to the fire. Will sips his wine again and watches, perching on the counter.

At one point he disappears through a stone doorway and down a flight of stairs, re-emerging with a joint of meat and some summer squash. Will accepts a knife and some of the vegetables, as has become their custom.

He chops the squash while Hannibal begins to sauté the meat with some onions. He's completely immersed in his task, graceful and fluid as he is painting. Will remembers watching him move over him; his quiet mastery in everything. He shivers involuntarily.

Hannibal's eyes skate over him again. It feels like a touch.

"Are you all right, Will?"

"You're not the only one who likes to look," Will tells him softly.

That makes him smile. "Is it wrong that I'm pleased?"

"Not at all," Will blushes. “You don't think I'm just here for the books still, do you?"

"I had suspected not."

They exchange smiles. Will hands over his wares.

Soon, their meal is trailing its fine aromas into the air, and Hannibal asks him to pour them both wine. Will does, taking him the cup with strangely unsteady hands. Hannibal fills their plates and leads him to the table.

"Looks beautiful," Will says softly.

"As do you," Hannibal tells him.

Will's ears burn even as he rolls his eyes. He lets himself be seated. A kiss falls on his hot ear.

"Enjoy," Hannibal says.

He does. They both do.

 

Later, Will finds himself sprawled against Hannibal on the chaise in the studio, reading once more while Hannibal strokes his hair. He's lulled himself into a state of near-trance. The wine helped with that. He's full and warm and content and not a little tipsy.

"Will?" Hannibal soothes through his hair with his fingers.

"Yes, Hannibal?"

"Are you tired? You seem quiet."

"Yes, I think I could sleep," Will murmurs.

"Come along then."

He guides Will up to his bedroom with few further words. It's warm but the sheets are cool, and Will stretches out languidly as Hannibal climbs into bed beside him. He reaches automatically, and hands meet his.

"Sleep well, sweet."

Will nods slowly, curls tumbling over his face.

"And you."

Curled in his arms, he falls asleep quickly. Then the dreams come.

 

_It doesn't feel like a dream at first, cool hands sliding over his skin, but the light in the room is strange. Stone walls, torchlight, like he's underground. Still in bed, he thinks, still tangled with another body._

_"Hannibal?" he whispers._

_But when he looks, the shadows seem to swallow up Hannibal's form, and he knows. It's the creature, and he's wrapped in its ebony arms. A strange lack of fear, he thinks. Still, he stirs, and so does his creature. He feels its pressure against his back; sharp ribs and hips. A long-fingered hand wraps around his shoulder. Will arches his neck at the nuzzle of papery skin there._

_His breath comes faster. As the touch becomes more insistent, more intimate, he arches. Clawed hands scratch slowly down his chest. Though there's a faint chill in the air, Will feels himself growing hot._

_He whines softly, hips circling. The hands grip him like a cage again, holding him tight as he fights and bridges to feel it. The nails bite in again. Will gasps, and then he feels replete and impaled and pinned down, thighs spreading to accommodate. His creature, his violent lover, so deep inside as to touch his core. Stretching him, cherishing him._

_Will moans, bucking back into the burn, feeling blood slide down his ribs. He's shaking, raw and wild with shameful need. He twists his head back for a kiss, finds a mouth furnace-hot and lined with predator's teeth. The claws cradle his throat as he kisses his monster, mindless of the taste of copper. Then it thrusts, again, a reminder. He can't restrain his moan; a wordless plea._

_Its hand tangles in his curls, pulling his head back cruelly. The teeth sink in, and the claws pierce, and Will just bucks and writhes for more. Blood runs down his chest and he spreads it with his own hands. The shame stings as much as the wounds when he wraps one bloody hand around his cock and strokes as the creature keeps moving within him, antlers a barbed shelter around them._

_He feels the tear of his skin, the motion of it swallowing. It hurts, unimaginably, but as it bends back for more Will still offers himself. Pain and pleasure mingled, its dark grip holding him with a terrible tenderness. The sudden certainty that it won't stop eating him stalls him; injects him with bright crimson fear._

I want to be yours _, he thinks frantically,_ but not like that _._

_But as soon as the struggle starts, the claws tighten. He can't stop it. Panic bubbles up and over and he thrashes, but the teeth in him keep sinking deeper, the monster still moving inside him, seeming all the more unmovable for his struggling._

_It takes him over until all he is is blood and writhing. He feels the teeth close over his throat, the place he knows will end it all, and a crest of pleasure lights him up and shakes him through the haze of terror._

 

He shakes himself awake, awash in sweat and panting like he's run a mile. Miserably, he realizes he's sticky with more than sweat, flushed afresh with shame at the thought. His throat is on fire, too, and he has to touch it to reassure himself it's whole. He needs a drink.

A glance to check he hasn't disturbed his bedmate, only slightly afraid to find the dark, skeletal body there. Instead, he finds nothing – empty sheets. He runs his hand across the linen, finding it holding only faint warmth.

Breaths still settling back to normal, Will steels himself to go down and find him: he can get some water from the kitchen as a detour. Perhaps he's in the studio. Will could never truly blame Hannibal for deserting him in the throes of his dreaming, but it still stings a bit.

Swallowing it down, he undresses and wipes himself down as best he can, pulling on one of Hannibal's fine linen robes with a prickle of anticipation before padding downstairs on silent bare feet.

A peek in the studio reveals nothing of Hannibal's whereabouts, but the kitchen is just as silent. He lights a small lantern and pours himself a cup of water, drinking it down and thinking. He paces the kitchen, considering the library, but pauses when he sees the faint bar of light from under the kitchen cellar door. His fingers are on the latch before he can think twice.

He picks up the lantern, and slides the door silently open, peering down into the depths, and carefully starts to pick his quiet way down the stone stairs, bare feet chilled. There's movement beyond the wine racks; the sound of running water and rustling.

Holding the lantern aloft, Will flashes it around the room he's in, and sees a second door slightly ajar. He creeps to it, mind making the connection between the layout of the house and the medical cellar where Hannibal had showed him his cadaver. All the while, the bouncing glow of the lantern illuminates a little globe of space around him, and Will jerks back when a phantom limb appears in his peripheral vision. He swings around, leery of the creature from his dreams, but a row of meat hooks have his attention instead, their occupants eerily familiar. A hollowed carcass, hanging to drain, split open and with the feet and head removed.

Eyes widening, Will steps closer, and tries to make himself form the thought.

Hannibal has human remains hanging in his larder.

The realization is so stark and alien that an inappropriate grin flickers across Will's mouth for a moment, before the gravity sets in and he thinks of hunting, and carving knives, and teeth in his throat. He gasps in a helpless breath. The lantern drops with a smash, and the dark closes in.

"No," he sobs. His hands search blindly for a wall, the door, anything but the inhabitants around him, but the sound of a creaking hinge freezes him in his tracks.

"Hannibal?" He breathes, eyes searching for light.

"Will..." the sound of clattering, and Hannibal brings a candle through the door, face wreathed in shadows. He flicks his eyes over Will, the lantern, the room at large. Assessing. "Don't move," he says soothingly, "I'll need to clean up that glass."

Will flattens himself to the wall, breaths coming short and rough. Hannibal sets the candle down on a nearby table, and Will whimpers.

"It's all right," he whispers softly, "you don't have to be afraid."

"There are _arms_ hanging behind your head," Will snaps.

Hannibal ignores it. "Tell me what woke you, Will," he murmurs.

"That doesn't matter. I needed water. You were gone, and now I find you here. With all of this." Hannibal tilts his head, almost imperceptibly, and Will is struck anew. "You left it unlocked on purpose."

"You were nearly there on your own," Hannibal murmurs, not denying it.

Will swallows.

"I didn't want to be there."

"Didn't you? What were you dreaming about, Will?" Hannibal repeats.

He bites his lip. "Nothing."

As soon as Hannibal has swept the broken glass aside, Will takes hold of the candle and marches past him, down the hall he now knows connects to the medical cellar. He has to see for himself.

Before he reaches it, he stops dead, the room preceding it still lit with Hannibal's torches. It's what Will can only describe as an abattoir. Clutching the door jamb with his free hand, he sways slightly, seeing antlers in the torchlight.

"Will," Hannibal says gently, at his shoulder, "you don't have to look, you can turn away now. I won't hold it against you."

"I have to look," he says in a low voice.

"You want to," Hannibal discerns.

"I want to," he agrees softly.

The torches gutter for a moment, and Hannibal's features morph with the shadows.

"Go ahead," he murmurs.

Will steps inside. The floor is cold as ice under his bare soles. Will has no idea how he keeps it so cold down here... underground spring, perhaps. But it's a good thing, either way. There’s drainage, but the room still smells of carrion, torchlight illuminating the bloodstained blocks; the many gleaming blades. A row of thin tables, only two occupied, a sheet covering the bodies No head, or hands. Water still runs along the flagged floor drains, tainted red. Hannibal’s great marble autopsy slab dominates the center of the room, crisp and imposing and shedding cold.

"How many other bodies are there back there, Hannibal?" he whispers. 'Bodies' might be generous. They're joints, by now.

"Two or three," Hannibal murmurs. "These are for you."

Will whips around. "For _me_."

"Your experiments with dissection, yes."

"And the ones that are hanging? Curing?" Will murmurs.

"Experiments of my own."

"Cookery experiments, you mean." Will's voice remains faint, but even.

"You know I like to prepare my own food."

"Yes. I know." He closes his eyes, feeling clawed hands closing slowly over his shoulders. His breath comes shuddering out. "How will you prepare me?"

"Prepare you," Hannibal repeats, faintly questioning.

"Yes. When I join the others?"

That seems to give Hannibal pause, as if it had genuinely never occurred to him.

"I have no intention of preparing you."

"No?" Will says softly, turning back to face him, the room at his back.

Another tilt of his head.

"I don't let anyone into my home, Will," he reminds him.

"Except for me."

"Except for you."

"What is your intention, then?" Will asks quietly. He's flummoxed by Hannibal's apparent hurt at the question; his voice carries notes of dismay when he answers.

"I wish to advance your education. To paint you. To feed you."

That's all... that's enough, isn't it? Will's uncertainty unmoors him, and Hannibal must sense it, because he reaches out for him with gentle fingers.

"Or I could show you."

"Yes," Will whispers. "You can show me."

Hannibal's hands come to gently cup his shoulders. Then he backs him up until his thighs hit stone. Will barely keeps himself from shaking, struck with fear at misinterpreting – at being pinned down on the slab - but Hannibal merely gathers him in his arms, warm lips finding his, coaxing Will's open.

"Hannibal," he whispers. A warm hand cups his cheek.

"It's all right. It will always be all right, _tesoro_. I won't let anything happen to you."

Will's throat feels tight. "But other people won't."

"Does that matter to you?"

"I think it does."

"You wouldn't be yourself without your own beliefs," Hannibal murmurs.

"Question is, is being myself a liability to you?"

Hannibal studies him with bright eyes, and Will understands that Hannibal hopes to change his mind.

"However you choose to be, I respect your right to evolve," he tells Will softly, tipping his head to kiss Will's jaw, his lips parted as if to bite. And then he does, and it's the prickle of a dozen tiny needles.

Will's dream resurfaces from the black water of his mind and he cringes instinctively even as his body throbs. He makes a confused noise. Hannibal's lips trail up to the shell of his ear.

"I love the way you taste," he whispers, "but I won't break the skin." He kisses again, and Will can't help holding on; arching into his touches. It's cold down here, the stone against his thighs sending chills up his spine. Hannibal's lips move to his ear. "I'll ask once more, my darling. What woke you?"

"A dream," Will confesses finally.

"The same dream?"

"Uh, reprising roles, new scenery."

"What scenery was it?"

He daren't say it, fearful of sounding like he's lying, but Hannibal waits. "It... it was here."

"Surprising boy," Hannibal murmurs, kissing his neck again.

His voice becomes slippery. "And what about it had you changing out of your clothes?"

Will blushes. "I think you know."

"Darling," Hannibal sighs, "did your creature come to you again?"

Will nods slowly. "It... took a bite out of me," he whispers. He's horrified at the little groan that escapes when Hannibal slides a hand up his back.

"Where?"

Will touches the base of his throat. "H-here."

A warm hand covers it at once. "Here?"

"Yes - I felt it, I felt every second."

Hannibal hums, his mouth dropping to the same soft skin. "And did you like it?"

"Yes," Will whimpers, head tipping back. The pass of Hannibal's tongue dislodges a groan from his throat.

He whispers against the hollow of Will's throat, "And how did your creature take you, this time?"

The shame again, prickling like Hannibal's teeth. "No, no, don't-"

"Don't what?"

"Don't make me say it."

"I imagine it's always the same," Hannibal murmurs. "From behind, is it not? Like an animal - a beast." Will grasps him, as if to push him away, but his hands merely rend the cloth helplessly. Hannibal smiles. "Would you like to see how it feels?"

"Stop," Will warns, a faint break to his voice just at the thought, his body treacherously hot at the words.

"Are you sure?" Hannibal purrs. His hands slide down to the tops of Will's thighs and he lifts him onto the stone mortuary slab, pressing smoothly between his knees. "It's no good, Will, keeping all this fear inside you."

"Fear," he repeats. He wishes it was just fear. Fear is what normal people feel.

Hannibal's eyes catch the lamplight like pools of oil holding flame. His hands slip back up Will's thighs.

"You fear desire. Your desires."

"Unnatural desires," he whispers.

"What you see is a manifestation of the evil you court, and covet. Understanding the difference between wanting to explore the unnatural and become it is a fundamental part of critical thinking, and self-awareness."

Will groans. Only the Conte could say all that while his thumbs draw slow circles on the tender insides of Will's thighs. With gentle coaxing, he lies back on the slab, shivering when Hannibal sweeps his robe open.

He makes an appreciative noise. "Stunning boy."

He crawls up after Will then, bending to taste a mouth gone slack with a terrified desire.

"Hannibal-" He pleads it again weakly, images of distorted carcasses flickering in the low light.

"Hannibal, stop? Or Hannibal, more?"

Will swallows, then sighs. "More, please."

It gets him that hot mouth again, the one that sweeps across his skin like he's a treasured possession. He lets his noises flood away into the darkness. Gives them to Hannibal like a gift. In turn, he kisses Will like he's giving thanks to one of his towering deities. It's enough to make him dizzy.

His breath is like the caress of wings. It tracks over his skin, tracing all of his vulnerable places. Hesitantly, he reaches out to touch Hannibal's hair, drawing him up with shaky hands.

"More," he demands again.

He's rewarded with a nip to the inside of his wrist, and Hannibal's mouth trailing down like a brand in the stark cold of the cellar. His mouth is _everywhere_. Kissing the peak of his ribs, following the trail down to his stomach.

Will arches up into it. Hannibal's mouth enveloping his cock sends him arching, crying out choked and needy. He is on fire, burning from the inside. The cold stone at his back, the dead there to witness his departure from god, sanity, goodness.

If they are witnesses, they are silent ones. Will is distinctly not. He can't stop himself from making depraved noises at each new sensation. He holds onto Hannibal's hair and lets his eyes make shapes out of the dark. Twisted antlers, climbing like vines. Pearlescent eyes watching from above.

And Hannibal, always Hannibal. Everywhere at once, and still not quite enough contact.

"Please," he begs softly, "I need more."

Hannibal pulls off and looks up at him. "You can have it. I'll give you anything you want, my love."

"Give me what I dreamed of."

Hannibal sighs warm against his thigh. "Turn over then."

Will shifts, gets his knees under himself. Hannibal's hands gently steady him as he leans in to kiss the small of his back. He's being entirely tender, and it makes Will's spine bow.

"You still trust me." Hannibal sounds moved at the realization.

Will presses his forehead to his crossed forearms. "Yes, Hannibal," he whispers.

His reward is warm breath, and the same swathing wet heat from this morning in the studio. It's an outrageous feeling, just as before. Will practically whimpers for it, bearing back, mind flashing over the room and its occupants and the antlered beast from his dreams. He's surrounded by death except for one point of contact, relentless living flesh. Surrounded by death, and beloved by it. Overtaken by pleasure.

Now, Hannibal's hot tongue is stroking inside of him; over the rim of his hole, already tender from the last couple of days, a pleasurable twinge. Will gasps and arches at the feeling of wet running over his skin; of soft sucking kisses. They seem to leave slick rather than clean it away, and Will realizes soon enough that he's been prepared for an intrusion of another sort. He keens helplessly.

Finally, Hannibal kneels up onto the slab, unfastening his trousers and brushing kisses down Will's shivering back. Will steals a glance over his shoulder, shuddering at the look of him in the wavering flame of the lamp. Skin shining, mouth still glistening, he's every bit as awe-inspiring as the monster of Will's dreams. And he watches Will with his adoration shining out of him like a beacon. His hands are gentle even as he shifts Will firmly into position on hands and knees, silver hair falling forward to shield those dark eyes.

Will whispers it again and again, against his own cool, sweaty skin - "Please, Hannibal, please -"

"Please what, Will?"

" _Take me_."

The thick press of his cock is so much when he's overwrought like this, hot and stretching him open. But Hannibal is relentless. He keeps going until Will whimpers; until his hips are snug against the back of Will's thighs. Then he begins to thrust.

The path of Will's pleasure sears straight up his spine like lightning cracked into sand. He moans and pushes back into Hannibal's body, that single point of life and adoration, a feeling like a tearing and a craving both. Hannibal's hands come to grip his ribs and Will feels like he's being given a gift. His own heart thumps wildly in his chest, and he fancies they're pumping in rhythm.

"Can you see it?" Hannibal whispers then against his neck.

Will looks up at him, back arching. The shadows crown him in horns. The light from the lamp casts his features into a shadowy skull.

"Yes," he whispers. "Yes, Hannibal - I see you -"

"Good." His hips jerk smooth and deep. "Good."

Will keens softly, hips rolling back into him as his body is taken over by tremors. Then, Hannibal lowers himself against his back and ruts harder, and he can barely even contain his cries. He's taken over; inside in every way, in every inch and every part. Will's fingers curl at the lip of the table and he moans when Hannibal's thrusts come faster.

"I see you," he cries again.

"And I you," Hannibal rumbles, voice reverberating through both their chests.

"I feel - you-" he chokes out

"Good. Good, love."

It feels like both their voices, both their bodies. Will is taking and being taken, speaking and hearing, breathing and -

Devouring.

"God," he groans into his arms, "Hannibal, please-"

Kisses on the back of his neck, the same spot he'd been bitten in the dream. "Anything," Hannibal whispers.

"Everything." He feels Hannibal's hand skim down his belly.

"Yes," he gasps as he wraps a hand around him. It barely matters that he came not long ago. All that matters is Hannibal, hitting every chord. Touching every spot where he blooms the brightest. Will feels like he could crack from the pressure of it, chinks of it showing through the fissures in his skin. He feels aflame.

The thought of his shadowy creature visits him again, and he grits his teeth at the cold stone on his knees; the faint scrape on his arms as another one of Hannibal's thrusts moves him. He rocks back recklessly. It nearly hurts, Hannibal is so deep in him. He craves the pain. The heat. All of it.

Fingers wrapping around his cock steal all the breath out of him. He arches his back again.

"Hannibal - Hannibal -" he bears back for more, the weight of Hannibal's body crushing him down closer on the coronary slab, smelling of iron and cold.

Fingers bite into his skin, not quite claws but no less possessive. The stroke over his cock is fast and skilled and demanding. Will is filled with a roiling mass of love and fear. It chases him the same way Hannibal did, snapping at his heels.

Like Hannibal, it catches him. Overpowers him and sets him ablaze with bliss. He whines and pushes faster into both thrusts and the punishing grip. He's coming, gasping. Spilling onto the cold stone.

He feels Hannibal's breath against his back. Then his teeth close over Will's shoulder as his thrusts quicken. It nearly hurts, Will's so sensitive. He clutches Hannibal's hands in his own and bears back for it all the same.

Hannibal doesn't make a sound, but his body screams his abandon for him. He's rough when he comes, breath a low rumble in his chest. He licks over the bite mark he made and whispers Will's name.

Neither of them can move for a moment, it seems. Neither of them try. The cold silence seeps in around them, crushing like the black of the shadows, seeming to creep closer on the pools of amber light as if fighting for dominance at the borders.

Shivering faintly from the cold, sweat evaporating on his skin, Will watches the torches until the lights start to show him ghosts.

"Back to bed, I think," Hannibal says eventually.

Will breathes in, out. Shakes away the after-image of pale eyes. "Yes."

He doesn't know if he can sleep after what he's seen. Hannibal can just stay awake with him.

With twin sighs, they start to ease apart. Hannibal seems unwilling to stop touching him. It's a heady thing to be aware of - to debate inside. Is it affection, or possession? Does he care? Will turns into him in the dark where they're stood, and allows himself to be embraced. The panic is back, just lapping under the afterimage of pleasure. So much death, all around him. Hannibal’s arms to guard him.

"Will..." Hannibal's hands are a gentle tether to the frigid tide that seeps in to pull him away. "Will, come with me now."

He goes, letting Hannibal wrap the robe back around him. When they get to the kitchen Hannibal washes him in the basin, and Will stands still for that too. He feels curiously calm again now, with Hannibal's hands moving over him. His nightmare has stepped into reality, and it's taken a familiar form.

"Let's go upstairs," Hannibal says finally. If Will's silence is at all concerning, he's hiding it well.

In his chambers, he pulls Will toward the bed, but pauses before it with a hand on Will's cheek. No lamps in here, just the silvery light of the moon, picking out the shine in his eyes and the white of his hair.

"Talk to me, Will."

"You're the monster in my dreams," Will whispers, "yet I love you so."

The expression on Hannibal's face is wistful and desperately touched. "Will..."

"You've done this to me."

"I could hardly feign regret."

"I'm not asking."

"I know." He strokes Will's hair back. "Please, tell me you know that I would never wish to harm you."

Will thinks about it; thinks about the cellar. "What did those people do?"

“Does it matter?”

“It matters to me.”

"Very well. I found them rude, vicious. Unworthy."

"And what if I end up unworthy?"

"You could never." So certain.

"You don't know that."

Hannibal sighs. "I am no mindless beast."

"I - god, I know that Hannibal." He sighs.

"You already trust me, don't you?" Will nods. He does, despite it all. "It's not misplaced, Will."

He draws him in to kiss him. It's easy to let him. He makes Will dizzy with want. Even after everything. Especially after everything. He shivers at the touch, and it only makes his hands wander more. Hannibal seems insatiable.

It's not entirely one-sided. Will crowds him until they've reached the edge of the bed. Hannibal goes down, and urges Will into his lap gently. Will's robe waterfalls around them. He can't stop looking at Hannibal, seeing him; seeing his work.

His dissection; masterful. His cookery; art.

"You paint them, don't you?" Will realizes, voice soft.

"Of course," Hannibal murmurs. "And so, I elevate them."

"You've been painting me," Will says, voice weak.

"You hardly require elevation, beloved. Only a setting from whence to shine."

Will's voice sounds faraway to his own ears. "Like Ganymede."

"Yes, cupbearer."

With a slow sigh, Will allows himself to be turned and laid gently back down on the mattress. Hannibal's hands pet gently over his skin. Will touches him in turn, stroking the smooth expanse of his back. They both sigh in tandem, the dark cocooning them together. Like great, star-studded wings of black night, feather caresses in the dark.

 

The remainder of their weekend together passes in a haze of uneasy desire. Hannibal paints. Will reads. Chiyoh returns. Breakfast is sweet flaky bread studded with apple, luncheon is pearly grilled trout with watercress, and Hannibal when he kisses Will goodbye by the carriage is merely tender.

Will is tender too, in body and in temperament. He looks out of the window on the carriage ride home and tries not to acknowledge that he fears leaving almost as much as he fears returning. The fear has its hooks in his skin. He needs to tear free. Never mind the pain. With a sigh, he closes his eyes to shut out the sinking sun, and tries to keep his thoughts ordered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CWs: This chapter contains the mild depiction of human corpses.
> 
> TWs: There is a Will/Wendigo sex scene (dream scenario) which contains mild vore - Will being bitten and hurt. This obviously is a bit of a weird one in terms of consent bc it's a dream but it definitely has a slightly frightening vibe to it, so heads up. <3


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter contains some violent scenes and a minor character death.

Will is still feeling flayed even as he prepares for class the next morning, hurrying in the early dawn grey past Peter's stable. That makes him pause even despite lateness, because he can't immediately see him. He makes a decision, and ducks in.

He hears whimpering, and hangs back a moment, hand reaching for a broom handle before he can stop it. But it's only Peter, seated on a hay bale with his head in his hands. Will knows at once that something is very wrong - he can see blood on the stable floor; Peter's hands wet with it.

"Peter-?" He releases it and rushes to him. "What happened-?"

"I-Ingram," Peter stutters after a moment of soundless mouthing. "He won't leave m-me alone-"

Will drops down to his knees, accepting Peter's fumbling hands. "What did he do-?"

He sees the bruise then, across Peter's face. He peers at it, trying to stay calm; not to spook Peter. It's broken skin, the force of the strike. Made by something harder than a hand.

"Peter, this needs some ointment, maybe a stitch, do you have anything on hand?"

"N-no- no."

"We'll take you to the Professore, he can help." He tries to keep his voice soft, but he feels something black and tarry bubbling up inside him.

Peter is still trembling when he tries to move him, his coordination shot. Realizing he's not doing him any favors, Will stops pulling and lets him rest.

"I'll go and get Claudius. I won't be long, Peter, don't move."

The professore waves off his apology for pulling him away from class minutes before they're due to start.

"It's Peter," Will explains, nearly running back toward the stables, "someone attacked him, he's been hurt and he needs help."

He forces himself to slow down before they get there so they don't startle Peter. Claudius' gentle voice is barely audible over the rising din of the chorus in his chest; his heart a snare drum, his beast growling low. He forces himself to tend, and think, and plan.

"Peter," he says eventually, when Claudius has swept past him to go fetch supplies for first aid. "Where did Ingram go?"

"H-he took his h-horse to the other stable," Peter whispers.

Will watches him a moment longer. "May I go and find him?"

"I-I-I just want to be left alone."

"All right." Will pauses. "Peter - do you know where Ingram's rooms are?"

He shakes his head mutely, but it seems more born of overwhelm than anything; the agitated motions of his hands feel uncertain rather than dismissive.

It has to be now then. With a sudden certainty, Will picks up a mallet from the horse tack wall. "I'll be back shortly, Peter."

Peter and the professore are distracted by a search for ointment, it's easy to slip out. He has no plan, but the hammer and hatred in his heart.

Hannibal would be displeased. That makes him stall briefly. Hannibal. His _mentor_. What would Hannibal do? Even as he thinks it, he knows. He sees it, like a dream playing over his vision. It would start with an invitation to dinner.

Will doesn't have the patience. But Peter - Peter deserves this being done right. Will puts the mallet away, and goes to write a note to Hannibal instead.

 

Penning a hasty letter in his room, he sends for him personally, with a carriage, and says he'd like to invite an acquaintance to dinner. He has to trust that Hannibal will be intrigued enough to fill his request. He himself is filled with a harsh thrill, shaking him alongside the current of anger. He was ready to take that mallet and crack Ingram's brains across the stables. Hannibal, he senses, wouldn't be impressed. Will needs to think clearly.

He takes a deep breath, and then another. Getting caught means the noose. Hanging would be a waste. And Hannibal - would be alone again. He suspects that would mean disaster.

The note handed off to the messenger, Will makes haste back to Peter. The professore is finishing his gentle cleaning. Peter is still trembling, but the crying has stopped. Will gently knocks on the door.

"How are you, Peter-?"

"I'm f-fine," he says shamefacedly.

Will kneels down close by Peter. "Good." He avoids the professore's eye. "Can I take you back to your rooms, Peter?"

A nod. Will is pleased; he needs more information from Peter. Even so, he wants to see to it that Peter doesn't have anyone waiting for him anymore. Or he may be forced to act prematurely. That would ruin everything. His mind races.

"I'm sorry for the disruption, Professore," he says softly to Claudius.

"It's all right, Will. Shall I assume you won't be in class for a little while?"

"If that's all right." Permission thus granted, he helps Peter stand. "Show me where to go." He knows only that the university provides Peter with room and board.

It's slow progress, but that's no matter. Peter shakes the entire time. Keeping a careful arm around him, Will eventually helps him into his room, surprised to find several small hutches inside. Then again, he's not entirely surprised. Two rabbits, mice, and some fluttering songbirds in a cage on the windowsill.

Will gets him seated on his bed. "Let me get you some water."

Peter still looks shaken, but less so here. He's taken an animal out of a cage - a sleek brown rat. It climbs lazily about his arms, stopping to twitch its snout over a Peter's shaky hands.

"He's my friend," Peter whispers when he sees Will looking.

Will can't help but smile. "I'm glad." He reaches out and gives the rat a few gentle strokes of his finger. "Stay here and rest today," Will urges him softly.

Peter nods, eyes flickering closed. "Th- the Professore said to."

"Good. Good. Now - are you sure you don't know where I can find Ingram?"

A faint frown at that. "He - I think he stays in the lodgings near to yours."

"I shall insist on justice, over this."

"Will," Peter sounds faintly panicked at that.

"Peter, you mustn't protest. This is too much."

"He - but Will..."

"Do you trust me?"

"Yes, yes of course I do."

"Then stay here, and trust me. Don't tell anyone we spoke about this, mm?"

He bites his lip, and then nods. "Yes, Will."

"Thank you."

Peter just smiles weakly at that. Will knows how he'd react to the truth. "Thank you, Peter," he repeats. Then he lets himself back out onto the street and heads for his own lodging.

He has to find Ingram. Find him and get him alone. He's still vibrating with that seething rage.

Hannibal will be armed, Will thinks giddily. He can tell Will what to do. But waiting is its own challenge.

Filled with swarming anticipation, he makes himself hidden near the courtyard of his lodgings and waits. It's not so hard to conceal himself in the long shadows of the pillars, but his patience feels thready as his pulse.

_Think, Will, think._

Eyes narrowing, he leans down and picks up a palm-sized rock from one of the pillars. A strike at the temple - he knows precisely where - should render him unconscious for long enough to bind him. Long enough to shove him into his lodgings and go find Hannibal, at any rate. He'll be patient. He'll force himself.

He closes his eyes, and thinks of the beast in the cellar. The beast would wait. The beast would stalk, and rend, and never falter.

Resolved, he hunkers down, and waits.

 

It's hours before he hears the clamor of returning students. It's easy to go unnoticed in the throng until he sees Ingram among them. Silently, Will slips along behind him, following him toward his rooms. He feels as if he's the creature now, stalking prey through a vast forest. He can almost feel the branches trailing his skin.

The few lingering students thin out the further into the labyrinth of the student quarters they go. Ingram's room is tucked away through a low archway. It's so easy, to catch the door before it latches. To slip inside and raise the rock.

Ingram's eyes show glints of white light that dull as he hits the floor. Will works quickly, binding his hands and feet to immobilize him, creating a gag. With his pulse pounding in his ears, he locks Ingram's door behind him and heads back toward his own rooms to wait for Hannibal. It oughtn't be long.

He's standing beneath the red split sky waiting when Hannibal arrives. No driver, Will realizes. He knows.

"Will." He greets him even before he's stepped down from the front of the carriage. "Is everything all right-?"

"It is now. Pull around the corner, please."

With only a curious look, Hannibal does as he asks, guiding the horses carefully to where Will points.

Will glances up and down the alley. "Come with me."

Curiosity clearly piqued, Hannibal does.

Will leads him to Ingram's door and lets them in. He watches Hannibal taking in the scene; the faint crease of pleasure at the corners of his eyes. He turns to Will gracefully.

"You've been busy."

"I'm afraid I missed my classes today," Will replies. "Will you help me get him into the carriage, Hannibal? It's too conspicuous here."

"Where will we be taking him?" His tone is insufferably pleased.

"Where do you think." Will glances down at Ingram, who's still unconscious. Perhaps Will hit him too hard.

"My home."

"If that's acceptable."

"We should untie him," Hannibal says, kneeling to check his pulse, peering at the thin trickle of blood in his hairline, "if anyone asks, he has overimbibed."

"Yes, of course. I'll retie him in the carriage." Will attacks his knots, frustrated by his earlier overenthusiasm at tightening them. He only stops struggling when Hannibal offers a knife.

Of course. He takes the blade, offered politely hilt-first, and slits the rope, tucking the cut pieces away in his doublet and rushing to assist Hannibal with lifting Ingram.

"It's all right, Will. Open the doors for me."

Will hastens to assist, but Hannibal seems to exert very little effort moving the inert body. Once Ingram is tucked away, Hannibal leans out the door. He offers Will a bottle of wine.

"Break this outside his door once you've tidied, and come join me."

Too grateful to consider how many times Hannibal has done this before, Will just does as he's told. When he peeks back in the carriage, Hannibal has already retied Ingram.

"Will," he says pleasantly. "Shall we ride up top together, or will you stay down here with our guest?"

"I want to ride with you," Will says at once, cowed by the fear of what he might do to Ingram if he awoke.

Hannibal just nods. "Then come. We are ready to depart."

Will climbs up gratefully. Hannibal sets the horses in motion and leads them back out of the city. He seems incredibly calm. Will has never been further from it. He's waiting for Hannibal to speak.

"What did this man do, Will?" he asks eventually.

"He torments Peter," Will says hotly. "I've caught him at it before. Today, he beat him for some imagined slight."

"Peter, your friend at the stables?"

Will nods, looking down at his hands. Another stilted pause as Hannibal considers this.

"Then we'll kill him."

"Yes," Will agrees softly. His breath shakes as he says it, but he's never meant anything more. Overhead, the sun bleeds out, dousing the dirt road ahead with red. It looks like they're driving into hell. Will looks at his own personal Charon, and sighs. "I'm not sorry."

"Nor should you be." Hannibal's voice is even.

"Thank you for coming to me, then."

"I cannot express how glad I am that you trusted me to."

Will sighs softly at that. "Of course it would be you."

"Of course, Will?"

"Who else-?"

"Who else, Indeed."

They smile at one another, Will's shaky, and settle into silence once more. A queer fiery tension still crawls over Will's skin. His mind bats at Ingram in the carriage like a cat unable to ignore the motions of a flickering bird. Jolted by the promise of future violence. As though chilled, he shifts closer into Hannibal's side.

Hannibal lets him lean. "Cold?"

He hums an affirmative, hazed with a sudden tiredness, adrenaline wearing off.

"Shall I talk to you?" Hannibal murmurs.

"By all means."

"I finished a new painting today."

"Oh really? What is it of?"

"A scene from Greek myth," Hannibal replies, sounding cagey. "I'll show it to you later."

"I look forward to it."

"What else did you do today?" he asks politely. _Before I wrote to you_ , he thinks.

"Took a walk, prepared some dinner. Chiyoh is home from her excursion."

"I see." Will is vaguely disquieted by that.

A soft sigh, Hannibal's fingers touch his knee. "She won't bother us."

"So you say."

"Will..." it's patient. "Why does she bother you so much?"

He's jealous, craven about Hannibal's time and his secrets. He isn't sure he can admit it. He thinks Hannibal merely wants him to admit it.

"I want to be alone with you," he says, faintly, "to know you alone."

"Like Venice?" Hannibal replies.

"Yes. I suppose so." He glances over at Hannibal. "Like my last visit."

"I don't think I can send Chiyoh away whenever you come, Will," not unkindly. "Give her another chance?"

Will shrugs faintly. "Far be it from me to be the one issuing chances."

"Oh, you feel she hasn't given you one?"

"I don't want a chance," Will says, ears suddenly hot, "I just want you to myself."

The silence feels knowing now. Hannibal seems strangely pleased. Will supposes he's shown his cards now. He huffs faintly to himself.

"You do have me to yourself." It warms him to hear it. "Rest assured Will, you're the vault where my secrets dwell."

He takes a deep breath. "The way you say such things-" He falters. Hannibal waits. "I do not feel so important, as to be their recipient."

"Perhaps that's part of your charm." He smiles when he says it.

"Charm," Will says derisively.

"Don't doubt yourself. I'm utterly enchanted."

"No accounting for taste."

"I am more than happy to demonstrate at your pleasure, Will."

"I'll hold you at your word."

Hannibal laughs softly. "Good."

Satisfied, Will nods.

The rest of the journey passes in relative quiet, without incident. If Ingram has come to consciousness, he's staying quiet. Will thinks he really might have hit him too hard, but the only dissatisfaction he finds in that is that he won't be able to see his fear. He tries not to let it rule him.

"What shall I do with him-?" he asks Hannibal.

"Anything you like, _tesoro_. Do you have a plan?"

"No. I was ready to beat him to death with a mallet earlier."

"Satisfying, I'm sure, though lacking somewhat in finesse."

"Yes," Will sighs, "not that he deserves it."

"He deserves no more nor less than what you give to him. This is your design, Will, not his."

That makes Will thoughtful once more. Calm discussion seems both crass and entirely elegant. Like Hannibal and the beast.

In the distance, he can see the house, not too far now. He can feel it coil in his stomach. Has he made a mistake? He steals another glance at Hannibal. He looks entirely calm.

"Hannibal -" he whispers.

"Will?"

"You're really helping me? This isn't some sort of trick?"

"What kind of trick might it be, Will?"

"Not trying to entrap me? Frame me for your crimes?" Will laughs a little to show he's being fanciful.

Hannibal's brows raise just slightly. "Such a suspicious mind." He contemplates for a moment, then looks at Will again. "If that was my motivation, do you think I'd have come to you today?"

"No," Will admits softly. "And I don't think you'd ever miss that chance."

"You're quite right." His voice is warm.

Will sighs softly. "I'm sorry I said that."

"It's a natural step in acceptance."

"Is it? Which do I have left?"

"You tell me, Will."

Will is silent for a moment. "Bargaining," he murmurs.

"For what?"

"An acceptable compromise?"

"Such as?" He sounds amused.

"I think we both know I have the capacity to join you, but I don't have your... appetite, Hannibal."

Another thoughtful silence. "Not all the time, perhaps," Hannibal murmurs.

Will sighs. "Maybe I'll develop more of a tolerance."

"Perhaps," Hannibal repeats. He steadies the horses as they get to the dirt track that leads to the villa. From inside the carriage, they hear a thump, and Will smiles fiercely. "Our guest is awake," Hannibal observes, "that, or he fell off the bench."

"I hope he's awake," Will murmurs.

"Do you? Are you hoping to frighten him, Will?"

"Not hoping. Intending."

Hannibal smiles at him, and halts the horses. "Then let us begin."

He hands Will down from the seat, and they go to retrieve their cargo. Will is delighted to see the flash of Ingram's eyes as they open the carriage door, though there is no recognition. That's fine. He'll learn who he is before long.

Will jumps up to check his bonds - still secure - and glances at Hannibal. With barely a huff of effort, Hannibal grasps Ingram by the ankles and drags him out of the carriage, letting him unceremoniously smack onto the gravel. Then he glances up at Will.

"We still have nearly an hour before full dark," he murmurs.

"What did you have in mind?"

"How would you like to hunt?" Hannibal murmurs.

The idea of it arrests Will with savage pleasure; prickle of fear. "What if -"

"What?" Hannibal touches his shoulder. "He will not escape us. Not now."

Swallowing heavily, Will nods. "All right. Yes."

Hannibal reaches into his boot and pulls out a sturdy knife, which he hands to Will. "Go on, cut him loose."

Drawing a great breath into his lungs, Will looks down at Ingram; sees the first flash of wild fear in his gaze and knows his righteous fury shows.

"You were so anxious to torment someone weaker than yourself," Will hisses. "What will you do now? Run, or fight?" He leans down, and Ingram cowers as he slits the bindings. He keeps the knife. "Get up," he growls, "or die on your back."

Then he steps back and waits. He can feel Hannibal's warmth at his shoulder. Ingram's scrambling to his feet. Good. Will smiles at him in the sunset glare.

"Who are you-?" Ingram breathes. Will inhales slowly.

"I'm Peter's friend, and I know what you did."

He looks at Hannibal, and their gazes snag, eyes aflame. They wordlessly agree to give Ingram a head start. Will is still holding the knife, and he sees Hannibal flick out a fresh one, small, with a secreted curved blade.

Will breathes out. "Run, Ingram," he urges in a low, menacing tone.

He stutters once, and then goes, stumbling as he runs. Will watches him with narrowed eyes. Beside him, a warm hand comes to his neck, grounding and gentling. The great, antlered creature beside him, eyes glowing in the dusk.

"Are you ready, Will?" Hannibal murmurs.

Will merely nods, and takes off through the trees, following the sounds of cracking branches; panicked breaths. He can feel Hannibal nearby. He can hear only Ingram, however, thrashing through the brush. He pursues steadily, relying on his fear. A molten thrill pushes its way through his veins.

No more panic for him, only certainty. Even when branches reach to scratch him, he pays them no mind. He's impervious to anything but the chase, spurred by the feeling of Hannibal running as his shadow; the beast that runs within them.

They're seamless, smooth as shadow. Silent and swift and lethal, as soon as they catch up. They're catching up. Ingram is panting, cowering. Giving up already. It's nearly a disappointment, until Will sees him turn sharply and run again. He darts off in pursuit.

Another stumbling cry, and then silence. Will stalls up, wary of falling in the dark, and then a sound as soft as wingbeats: footfalls on soft leaves. He turns his head to listen, and mindlessly follows, nostrils flaring, salt sweat pricking his skin with coolness. He draws in a few panting lungfuls and starts to run again. The dank, yellow light of the lowering night shows Ingram hunkered down among the brush to catch his breath, eyes wild. When he catches sight of Will, he throws himself into motion again.

They run for what feels like hours but in reality must be merely minutes, Will barely slowing as he clears fallen logs; ducks from the scratching claws of trees with sweat sticking his shirt to his back. They're in the orchard now, Ingram bumbling between the great trees, using them as cover. When he reaches the fence, Will clears it easily, barely a few meters behind. 

They're tearing through the undergrowth on the other side, branches snatching at them, heading for the same hill that Will skidded down not so long ago. If he makes it to the stream, he'll be on open ground before the next thicket of trees; he could lose them if he gained enough distance.

Will hears, vaguely from nearby, Hannibal circling around to intercept. Not sure he's ready for it to be over, he runs faster to beat him there. He slams bodily into Ingram, taking him low with a shoulder to the stomach, skidding to a scrambling halt in the dirt before the crest of the hill.

The cry he gives is just what Will wanted, frantic and bleating. Will straddles his sprawled form and strikes him in the face, just where he hit Peter. Then he does it again. And again. Until the impact of his fist is a wet crunching thud instead of just impact.

"Will..."

He turns at the word, suddenly so unfamiliar to him, and sees Hannibal's eyes gleaming in the dying light. Even without being able to properly pick out his expression, he can hear his pleasure. He wants to please him so much.

Turning back to the matter at hand, certainty in the pit of his stomach like a sack of sand, he sees Ingram looking up at him out of swollen, ruined sockets and grits, "This is for Peter."

Then he gives his neck a sharp, final twist.

Behind him, he hears a sharp breath, and when he looks Hannibal is still rapt, eyes wild with joy. Will holds his gaze, still breathing hard. The silent night presses in on them, interrupted only by the bursts of their breath; distant crickets.

"Do you want to see inside him?" Hannibal asks, finally. Calm again.

"I think he's ugly inside," Will murmurs, chest heaving.

Hannibal pauses, and nods. "Very well. What then?"

"Perhaps he'd be beautiful in pieces."

"Jointed," Hannibal says, practically.

Will licks his lips. "Show me."

"Back at the house would be better."

"Of course," Will murmurs. He gets up, legs already shaking.

Hannibal reaches out a hand for him. Will grasps it in both his own, knuckles smarting, his exertion finally catching up to him. Hannibal pulls him close, inspecting his hands. "We'll have to tend to these, my love."

"I'm all right."

Hannibal kisses his wrist. "Walk with me." And he pulls away, and hefts the corpse like it's made of straw.

"Hannibal, let me-"

He is ignored. It makes his stomach feel queer and tight. It's so comfortable for him. So easy. This is the difference between them; Will would struggle, at least physically.

He'd struggle to get away from Hannibal, too. But he knows he never would. That makes him shiver a bit as he walks.

This is his fate. He's not sure he'll ever be able to extricate himself from the shadow ahead, a black shape in the dark woods, branches over head taking on the shape of antlers. It's inside him now.

Maybe it always was.

The villa looms suddenly as they crest the hill. They walk inside together.

//

Hannibal hums as he chops the vegetables for caponata, watching Will expertly cube kidneys for pan-frying. He feels pleasantly exercised yet still taut with anticipation. His boy is clean and sweet-smelling after their earlier exertions and so very near. He's glorious, Hannibal thinks, struck anew with the singularity of this opportunity.

 He was glorious in the wood, and down in the cellar workroom, and he's glorious now, soft and fragrant and fey, shadows all hidden from sight. His hands are bandaged, the water Hannibal bathed them in standing in the basin, awaiting his attention.

Sipping his wine after rinsing his  own hands, Hannibal moves to stroke a hand through his curls, affectionately moved. Will looks up, lips slightly parted, eyes dark like sapphires in the candlelight.

"I want to show you the painting later," Hannibal murmurs, "in fact, there are two."

Will nods. "Yes, I'd like to see that," he murmurs back. His chin tilts up, solicitous. Hannibal takes the kiss he's offering. Then, he returns to dinner.

They work quietly after that, Hannibal offering instruction when requested, an echo of the scene in the cellars. An echo of the earlier scene in the condemned man's chambers. Hannibal will always offer what Will requests. And Will, it seems, will follow where Hannibal leads. Not blindly, of course. Never that.

 

They eat with the silent appreciation of people who need no more words. Hannibal drinks in every expression of pleasure on his lover's face. It seems sacred, blessed, watching him cut into his meat with a sigh. Hannibal drinks him in and thinks of the painting waiting for them upstairs. It couldn't possibly compare, but it's close. He's proud of his work. All of his work. Especially the project sat beside him.

Will glances up as if he feels his gaze. "Hannibal?"

Hannibal smiles. "My treasure. What can I do for you."

"I'd like to write to Peter and check he's all right after dinner, would that be all right?"

Hannibal nods. "I will send Chiyoh out with any messages you require."

"Thank you." He eats quietly for some minutes more, then sets his cutlery aside with a sigh.

"Will?"

"I've had enough, I think, or I shall be quite over-full."

"Very well, sweet. Your letter, then another glass of wine? Perhaps in the studio?"

"Thank you, yes." They rise and Will takes to the writing desk in Hannibal's studio, writing a hurried but obviously thoughtful note. Hannibal takes his pleasure in watching his face as he works, then as he calls for Chiyoh and sends her off with polite but certain orders.

She agrees to take the letter herself. Will seems to relax imperceptibly once it's out of his hands. And, Hannibal assumes, now that Chiyoh is gone. Solving that dilemma, Hannibal muses, is for another day. Now, he draws Will close and strokes back his hair.

"Come with me, love."

"Where to?"

"To the studio. It's time."

"All right." Will allows Hannibal to take his arm.

They go through to the studio. There are two paintings up on easels in the center of the room, covered with clean cloths. Will approaches them, eyes bright with curiosity. Then he turns to Hannibal for permission.

"Go ahead, Will."

Will nods and pulls the first dropcloth with a hissing swish. His eyes widen.

This is the first portrait, completed in all its classical glory. It's almost scandalous in its intimacy. Will clearly knows his own features, his own body, and these are his, depicted in oil, but - somehow heroic and suggestive. Hannibal hangs back and watches him take it in.

He glances at Hannibal, eyes alight with emotion. "And the other?"

"Take a look," Hannibal moves to help him uncover it.

At first glance, the light seems to be absorbed, so red and black is the canvas. "Tell me - tell me about it," he whispers breathlessly.

"It's you and your beast," Hannibal murmurs.

Inspired by Zeus and Ganymede, he admits, he'd painted the horned figure sweeping the youth up in a swirling cloud of feathers. When Will turns away from it, back to Hannibal, his eyes are sparkling with tears.

"Will?"

"Your art transforms people," Will whispers, "you've been transforming me from the start."

It warms him, like a flame in his breast. This boy. He is overcome. "I hoped to," he admits quietly.

"You succeeded."

"I'm honored."

"You mean it, don't you?" Will whispers, pivoting and slinking close.

"I do."

Hannibal watches emotion fill those sea-blue eyes. "Hannibal," Will whispers. "Hannibal, you know I'm yours. Have I ... transformed you too?"

"Was that your intention?"

He thinks he sees a bit of slyness creep in. "I wanted you to transform me. I hoped it would be mutual."

"I let you see me," Hannibal murmurs. "I let you in. I can't imagine being without you now."

"I won't let it go to waste."

He feels Will's hand trail up his thigh. The calm assurance makes both of them smile, though Will's is shaky. His hand settles at Hannibal's hip, holding them together. Slowly, they fall into a long kiss.

Hannibal can feel his paintings at their backs. Watching them, he thinks, amused. Let them watch. Let anything in Heaven or Earth watch.

With a long sigh, Will pulls back, pressing their foreheads together. "Take me to your room."

"Anything you wish," Hannibal murmurs, taking his hand.

They leave the studio, snuffing the candles as they go. A short walk down a dim hallway leads them to the master suite. Will barely lets him in the door before he's kissing him again.

"In bed," he urges between kisses. "Now, Hannibal."

It's thrilling to be directed, dominated as Will starts to strip him even as they move. He's quick but careful, and Hannibal can see doctor's hands in his movements. His heart swells with pride.

"Anything you'd like, Will," he murmurs.

"Anything?" He kneels between Hannibal's knees when they're on the bed, kissing the inside of his knee.

"Anything at all."

"Good," Will murmurs, lowering his head to take Hannibal fast into his mouth, hand guiding. He's still soft, but Will's scorching mouth awakens his nerves like fire. The desperate way Will takes him in draws a noise from his throat. He spreads his hands through his curls, jaw slacking with desire. Lovely boy, beloved boy. Boy who devours him like some lavish delicacy, languid sucks and licks and indulgent moans as he brings Hannibal to life with his mouth. He's insatiable, and Hannibal is in awe.

His thighs shake with sensation, body curling up as he watches Will, entranced. Will takes him deep, eyes glancing up to meet Hannibal's. It's a challenge, and a declaration. To lie back, to let him.

Hannibal takes a deep mouthful of the clove-spiked air, and submits again. The silk and velvet of his bedding cradles him. Will's wiry arms cage him as he pulls off with a slick, soft pop. He climbs into Hannibal's lap next. Claiming him as surely as any man atop a castle tower. He tastes of brine and certainty, lips berry red.

He's beautiful. Hannibal cups his face with a sigh, just holding. Will brushes their noses together. It's sweet, like youth and spring flowers and berries off the vine. But Hannibal knows there's more than that.

"Will you make me a constellation, Hannibal?" Will whispers.

"A sun. Nothing else shines so bright."

"Stars and suns are all the same."

"I prefer you over all."

Will beams softly at him. He leans in for another kiss. "I don't ever want to be apart from you. I don't think I could survive it."

"I would never wish to be either," Hannibal assures him. He touches under his chin. "You must finish your education, of course."

Will nods. "Of course."

"Not that much of a romantic, after all," Hannibal teases.

"You could teach me," Will replies. "But I suppose you find it valuable for me to learn with the professori."

"It might look a little suspect if I were to spirit you away for good."

"You want to," Will says confidently.

"I made that clear from the start."

"I'd let you spirit me away," Will says, leaning in for another kiss.

Hannibal lets his argument fall away; he just wants this. He'll have his boy, as often as he can.

He reaches down to touch him slowly. So beautifully aroused, hard and hot. He arches into Hannibal's touch with a soft groan. Hannibal pulls him closer, leaving only enough room to stroke with his hand.

"Hannibal," Will gasps.

"Still, darling. Let me stroke you."

"Fuck," Will groans again. His throat clicks as he swallows. Hannibal can't stop watching him. The way his lashes flutter is poetry.

He pulls him down into another soft kiss. He's a warm armful. And a hot handful. "Tell me how you want me, Will," he murmurs in his ear.

His breath shivers against Hannibal's throat. "Did Zeus ask Ganymede?"

"If he didn't, that was his folly."

"Not his only folly, surely," Will laughs softly.

"Certainly not." He sighs and nuzzles their cheeks together. "Still, I am asking you. You have earned it, I think."

"Earned it," Will repeats.

"The right to ask anything of me."

"And I hadn't before?"

Hannibal leans back to study him. Tricky territory. "You have been earning it, and I yours, as we have been learning to trust one another."

"Hmm," Will says, soft and amused, "one of us more than the other."

"Have we not met in the middle?" Hannibal asks.

"Not exactly."

"Are you dissatisfied with where we are?" Hannibal murmurs.

"No, but I'd like Ganymede to receive more credit for getting himself cast in the stars."

"My love," Hannibal breathes. Will tilts his head, brows quirking, a fetchingly stubborn angle to his chin. Hannibal is absolutely obliged to kiss it. And then the corners of his mouth; his sweet nose and his soft cheeks. Hannibal is overwhelmed by him, in the best way. "Allow me then, my love, to ask what you deign to give me."

"Worship me," Will whispers.

"An entirely reasonable request."

"Do you feel capable of fulfilling it?"

"I'm certain I am."

"Show me, then."

With a hum of content, Hannibal turns them over. He watches Will nestle into an extravagant pile of pillows, looking up through his lashes. "Hello, beloved."

Hannibal settles onto his knees, wrapping his fingers around one slim ankle. He caresses the soft skin, calf and thigh. Will watches with his eyes heavy lidded, expression catlike. Like the deity Hannibal sometimes believes is inside him.

He believes it now, bending to kiss his pale belly. He rests his cheek against the warm skin, listens to the sounds of his body, scents his skin. Will strokes slowly through his hair. Hannibal touches his sides, kissing his chest.

"Beautiful," he whispers. So slowly, he kisses each limb in turn as Will arches into each caress. "Like a young champion, I would anoint you with sweet oil, and laurels for your hair."

"I'm honored," Will breathes. "Was I so victorious today?"

"Always," Hannibal promises. He claims Will's pink lips, feels him fasten him close by his hair. "Impatient now?"

"I thought worship might be a little more hands on."

"It will be, once I can reach the oil."

With a long sigh, Will relinquishes his hold. Hannibal kisses him one more time. This fresh obsession feels foreign and familiar all at once, like a painting of a loved one studied anew. He cradles the feeling close, scents it deeply to memorize the smell. It smells like earth and green leaves. Like his boy, fresh, sweet, and wild.

He reaches for the pot of oil. Will watches him, stretching out lazily. His gaze feels like kisses. Hannibal dips his fingers into the oil with a hum.

"You want me inside?" he whispers.

Will bites his lip.

"Tell me, divine creature," Hannibal cocks his head.

"What if I want to be inside _you_?"

"You know what to do, then," Hannibal murmurs.

Will watches him for a long second, then leans up to kiss him, soft and wet and cherishing. "Really?"

"Of course, _tesoro_. You are victorious and I am your prize, if you wish."

"You're not a prize, you're a gift," Will sighs.

That pleases Hannibal. He agrees. "Then accept your _gift_ , Ganymede," he whispers.

Will holds out his arms. Hannibal kisses him as he shifts over the boy's lap. He wraps his slick fingers around his length and strokes slowly. Will shivers, expression enquiring.

"Observing or participating?" Hannibal asks him politely, reaching for the oil again.

"Can it be both?"

"As you wish."

Another soft kiss. Will reaches for the oil. Hannibal gives it to him and holds still with avid attention as he spreads more first onto himself and then between Hannibal's thighs. Then, he cranes up to kiss Hannibal as he pulls him closer, the hard arc of his cock sliding between his cheeks, making both of them groan. He knows how to do this, but is clearly surprised by the feeling. And so is Hannibal - it's been so very, very long. He's almost missed it. And this is his treasured Will; that means even more.

Distantly, he muses on whether Zeus ever would do the same for Ganymede. He certainly hopes he would. As Will takes himself in hand and starts to press with more intent, Hannibal rocks gently to help it along, jaw slacking at the promising first breach; the stretch of Will easing himself inside, tight and raw. His gaze is avid, pale eyes shining. He looks like a fallen angel. Hannibal can't look away; can't do anything but commit the feeling of it to memory. With his clean hand, he cups the bone of Will's jaw; coaxes him with another rock. "More, love."

Will bites his lip in concentration. So sweetly dedicated to him. With his cock slipping deeper, sweet moans spilling free, he's even more of a temptation to Hannibal. He wets his lips and closes his eyes on a faint sigh.

"You feel so alive," Will whispers.

"Is it that which surprises you, Will, or the fact that I make _you_ feel alive." He sees the recognition light in Will's eyes. He kisses him again hard. "I want you to feel that way, _tesoro_."

"I do- I do." He gasps in a breath, chest swelling.

Hannibal kisses him again, tousling his curls. He rocks down firmly now, taking him deeper, faster. Will's fingers slip away from the base of his cock and he grips instead at Hannibal's hips with a cry. Hands tightening on his shoulders, Hannibal bares his teeth. "More." Will obeys, pulling Hannibal faster, lips parting and eyes going unfocused. "Perfect," Hannibal praises.

He lets his voice wobble, just enough that Will can hear, and know, that he's not unaffected. Not that he thinks the physical tells are insufficient. But this is Will. He always looks beneath the surface.

"All the way now," Hannibal tells him softly.

Will noses under his jaw, nodding. "Please."

With that surprising, compact strength of his, he grips Hannibal to his body and turns them over smoothly, steadying himself with arms braced, hips rocking helplessly even as he finds purchase. He looks wild-eyed and grateful, his movements purposeful. They shift, settle, and come together to the hilt now with twin sighs. 

Hannibal looks up at Will from this new angle and feels overcome once more by the new certainty of trust; of love. Having Will inside him is the most divine of fates. The appetite he's developed for Will is ever-changing, developing, growing in further. Feeling him, hot and slick, sates Hannibal more fully than he'd anticipated. He groans in sheer delight, a hand going to Will's soft cheek.

"How do you feel, beloved?" he whispers.

"Sheathed," Will murmurs. "Powerful."

A little trickle of delight at the words. He tips his head back to luxuriate, and Will kisses his exposed throat. Holding him there yields a soft little sound and a few experimental surges of his hips, considering this new closeness; the snugness of their hips.

"Good," Hannibal murmurs, hiking him closer with his heels. He strokes Will's hair; gasps as he ruts harder. "Good." Will pants against his throat, hips rolling steadily now. "Take what you need," Hannibal whispers.

"Hannibal," Will says, helplessly, bracing his knees and hands more firmly.

"Yes, I'm here. Take me."

A messy, fervent smear of their mouths as Will snaps his hips. He's lost in it, and Hannibal is lost in him, as if they've become one body, sharing blood and air. He's fast and a little clumsy at first, and then something catches and he becomes smoother, surer. Hannibal feels each thrust through him like a shock of static.

He clutches Will tighter, feeling the motion set off in his own body; the sway of his feet, his knees against his flanks; the soft squeak of the bedframe. He exults in it, each sound and smell and taste. He feels worshipped, and used, like any true god must. No priest could ever be as devoted as his Ganymede. His Will.

He clasps him closer, kissing him hard. Will curls down over him protectively. His hand anchors Hannibal's shoulders as they move in smooth, pulsing rocks now.

They could keep this up for a long time, the two of them. Well, Hannibal certainly could, but he can see Will baring his pretty teeth with his self restraint. Perhaps in time. As far as he's concerned, they have it. He coaxes Will faster.

"Hannibal-" Will says, weakly, but he moves with his hands.

Hannibal coaxes another kiss out of him too. Like this, with him moving fast and hard and determined, sweetly dedicated, Hannibal's need starts to unspool. He breathes Will's name, fingers tangling into tumbled curls. "As hard as you like, darling."

"Oh, Hannibal." Will kisses him, licking into his mouth with the sweet desperation of someone who's on the edge. It's delectable, feeling him starting to lose control, reining it in. It reminds him of other moments he's coaxed Will to let go. How many others he could encourage.

It crawls through him like a rush of honeyed pleasure. An undercurrent to the physical flare of need. He lets them build like layers of paint. Will is gasping, clutching him tight. "Do you need to come?" Hannibal whispers.

He nods, wordless and urgent.

"Lovely boy," Hannibal breathes. "Let go."

"Not yet," Will shakes his head fast, "not yet."

"You said you needed to -"

"I want - I want to please you."

Hannibal touches his hair gently. "You always do."

"Hannibal," Will chokes.

"I wouldn't lie. You're perfect." Hannibal pulls him faster, letting himself pant at the heat it stirs inside him. He rolls up into every thrust, keeping them locked together. His eyes flicker shut when Will cries out on another hard thrust. He feels a rush of heat deep inside him. "Will-"

The name spills helplessly from his lips. He's momentarily thrown off when Will shifts upright, gripping the headboard, but he can't fault him the experimentation when the new angle shocks a slightly undignified sound out of him. Will bares his teeth again, in a grin this time. It amuses Hannibal, or it would if he weren't distracted.

Will's new angle has his nerves sizzling. He gasps and bridges for more, a smile tugging at the corner of his own lips. Suddenly their coupling takes a turn for the frantic. Will drags his nails up Hannibal's thigh; grips him once more with both hands and fucks faster into the heat of him as Hannibal grabs at his hair. Their mouths trap shared air between them until Hannibal's shifts down Will's jaw.

He takes his aching cock in hand; bites at the skin against his lips as he strokes and feels the pressure bloom between his hips like steam. Will whines at the press of his teeth, hips snapping unevenly. It's divine, rough and unschooled, relentless pleasure. Hannibal is nearly in danger of losing himself as well, pulled over the edge by Will's gravity.

He tightens his grip in his hair; tugs and cries out at the snatching thrust of Will's hips, pushing him so much deeper. That only incites Will to more. He bends to Hannibal; grips him tight. They rock together with clutching nails.

Hannibal's pleasure grows teeth, and turns on him like a wolf. He growls, and bites again. A sound and movement is shocked out of Will. Overcome, they curl into one another. It loses the fervour, becoming slow and worshipful once more.

Will's hand joins his, slow tight strokes. Softly, Hannibal groans. He can feel himself clenching tighter. It's tingling all over, climbing up his legs from his toes.

"Close," he whispers. Will whines. "Darling boy, my treasure, keep going..."

"Yes- yes-"

He thinks he sees the glint of tears. He knows he feels his own. He's overcome, physically and emotionally, all at once. He lets himself go. Above him, Will chokes on a moan. He can feel himself tightening around him. It's long, and sweet, and it falls on him as if from a great height. He feels it spread to envelop Will. Tastes his shocked cry as Hannibal pulls him over the edge with him.

It goes on for a long time. They're both still trembly as it subsides. Hannibal strokes through sable curls and listens to Will's heart beat. He keeps him close, only letting Will shift minutely, keeping him inside for as long as he can. When he finally whines and squirms, Hannibal loosens his embrace.

Will kisses him, long and firm. Hannibal lets his hands stroke up and down his back. Then, he lets him move away, both of them taking in the mess.

Will sighs and gets up for the pitcher and cloth in the corner. He's flushed, looking faintly apprehensive. Hannibal allows himself to enjoy the aesthetics for the space of a breath or two.

 Moody lamplight, the dishevelled sheets, and golden Will.

"Beautiful," he murmurs.

Will sighs and noses at him. "I think you mean yourself."

"I always say exactly what I mean."

Will laughs. "You do, hm."

"I do, in fact." He reaches for the cloth in Will's unresisting hand; the ruined bandage there. Sits up and wipes him down, and then himself, standing and stripping the sheet off the bed with an imperious flick. Will hides a smile.

When Hannibal has carefully redressed the mattress, he pulls Will back into bed. Will comes unresisting. They curl under the sheets, gazing at one another.

Hannibal feels a tide of honeyed satisfaction sweep over them. Studying Will's lashes, his curls and flushed cheeks, he reaches out and strokes two fingers under his chin; down his pale throat. Will watches him with ocean-blue eyes.

"What now?" he asks, voice hoarse.

"Whatever we like, _tesoro_."

"What would you like?"

"I believe I would simply like to hold you."

Will bites his lip. "And after that?"

"What would you like?" Hannibal replies.

"I'm considering the possibility that you... predicted... my actions today."

"Predicted, or influenced?"

"Both."

"Considering, or concerned?"

"You think I'd be here if I was concerned?"

"Perhaps not."

Will takes a steady breath, and his gaze doesn't falter. "I'm not afraid of you."

"No?"

"No, I'm not."

Hannibal reaches for him; pulls him closer. "I want you to stay here," he admits, voice unexpectedly small.

"I want to stay here," Will tells him, "but I want to finish my studies as well."

"Of course." Hannibal swallows down the threat that rises at the thought of Will being back in Padua.

Will is watching him closely.

"What is it, Conte?"

Hannibal shakes his head. How to express the emotion which has gripped him? "I have seldom entertained self pity until it came to longing for you."

Will smiles. "You don't have to long for me. I'm yours."

"But you want to leave me."

Will raises his eyebrows. "You said before that you wanted me to finish my education."

Hannibal sighs. "I know."

"If only you still worked at the university," Will raises his eyebrows.

Hannibal feels the manipulation but finds himself susceptible. "I could get you a better residence. Somewhere in the city. We could be alone."

"Alone," Will repeats softly.

"Alone, yes."

"I'm jealous of your attention as well, you know," Will chuckles softly.

"My attention where?"

"Anywhere other than me."

"It seldom is."

He watches Will smile helplessly. "A place in the city," he repeats, thoughtfully. Hannibal knows he'll say yes.

"So you can be alone, or with me, when our schedules permit." He's warming to the idea as he speaks.

"I have a room," Will says, albeit softly.

"In someone else's house. This would be ours."

"Ours." It sounds wistful even to Hannibal's ears. His sweet, yearning orphan.

"It's done then." He watches as the tension clears from Will's face and body all at once. He curls himself tighter into Hannibal's arms.

"The rest of Ingram," he murmurs, "I want to do something with his remains."

Oh, his love, how it burns in Hannibal's chest. "What, dear boy?"

"Something to - change him."

"Whatever you require of me...merely ask."

Will bites his lip. "I guess I need to think."

Hannibal strokes his curls. "For as long as you like."

"Just stay with me like this, and I won't want to move at all."

"Very well." Hannibal kisses his forehead gently. He agrees. He curls his arms around him more securely, and entertains himself with fantasies of what's to come.

 

\- FIN -


End file.
